To Boldly Flee: The Novelization
by Xoanon
Summary: One year after the battle with Malachite, The Nostalgia Critic is still grieving over the death of Ma-Ti. But his life suddenly changes when he is placed under house arrest, and a strange series of events coalesces around him. Haunted by past mistakes, and a desire to fix them, The Critic must assemble his unwilling allies once more in order to begin what may be his final trek...
1. Prologue

**Prologue: A Short Time Ago, In A Location Very, Very Near…**

_Space is big. Really big. You just won't believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is. I mean, you may think it's a long way down the road to the chemist's, but that's just peanuts to space._

—Douglas Adams

* * *

_Venus and Mars are alright tonight.  
_

* * *

A tiny cardboard canister floated through the dark, cold void.

Well, truth be told, it wasn't actually that dark. Or cold, even. It was really only dark and cold in a poetic sense, a "here lay the dark coldness I have spoken of so oft" sense. Space is mostly a vacuum, you see; it's not a thing that can have an actual temperature, so the only way it can be cold is in relation to everything that's suspended in it. And seeing as the midst of this narration there was a mid-sized G-type star, which put out enough light to see by in the orbit of even its farthest planetoid, it couldn't really be considered dark either. So, for the sake of accuracy in lieu of romanticism, we must say that the space being floated through was semi-dark and sort-of cold.

There. Now let's try that again.

A tiny cardboard canister floated through the semi-dark, sort-of cold void. It was a flimsy thing, its surface stained with the tiny pockmarks of countless projectiles gathered over a long and perilous journey. Most of the strange symbols that had once adorned it were now faded, with the exception of an odd man in a black hat and powdered wig whose calm visage still peeked out from beneath the numerous scars. Above him, in near-indiscernible text, were the words "Quaker Oats".

The canister had travelled very far. At a steady pace of about sixty kilometers per hour, it had managed to cross the orbit of Mars, brave the sheer emptiness of the asteroid belt and pass unmolested through the domain of the Helgas in little under a year. Now, after many months of endless floating in the not-so-icy quasi-blackness of space, its voyage was finally coming to a close. It had reached the orbit of Jupiter, unchallenged king of the gas giants.

The planet hung in space like a child's ball colored by a Jackson Pollock impersonator, creamy bands of color swirling and twirling upon its surface with speed imperceptible to the naked eye. On its southern flank stood the Great Red Spot, an angry crimson vortex with size and fury matched by little else in its realm. Its size was generous, its moons many, and its intimidating qualities palpable. The canister, tugged by the immense gravity of this behemoth of worlds, was dragged from its course, and slowly it began the descent toward its new home in orbit around this Jove of the Jovians.

The canister was not afraid of the swirling monster of hydrogen that now loomed in front of it, mostly because it was made of cardboard and couldn't feel fear. In fact, it couldn't feel anything. It had no sense of direction, no sense of up or down, no feeling, no comprehension or understanding of its plight, and, most importantly, no destination, and nothing to do until it got there. It had done nothing but drift aimlessly in the bowels of outer space for the entirety of its yearlong journey, and it would continue to drift aimlessly until a good-sized asteroid finally finished it off. That was its purpose, its point, its plot. There was no other plan, no other objectives for it to desire or work toward, no greater role for it in the story of the cosmos. Useless it was, and useless it would always be.

Ringed in a skirt of heavenly proportions around Jupiter were the largest in its prodigiously large harem of satellites, the Galilean moons. For centuries, emerald-tinted Ganymede, pizza-stamped Io, meteor-peppered Callisto and frozenly-refrigerated Europa had orbited their father in an endless dance of apogee and perigee. The canister, tugged further by competing gravities, was shunted into a course for Europa, the second outermost moon of the four. If the canister had been capable of expressing hope (it wasn't), then the best it could have hoped for was a stable ten-thousand year or so orbit around the moon. But that wasn't going to happen. Instead, in the thin skies far above that ball of methane and ice water, something miraculous was set to unfold.

It would be safe to say at this point that the canister of Quaker Oats floating in orbit was no ordinary canister of Quaker Oats. Yes, at one time it had been just a repository of ready-to-eat microwavable oatmeal, but that was no longer the case. Through a complex and unwieldy-to-explain series of circumstances, it had become a makeshift urn carrying the ex-earthly remains of an Indian twenty-something which had been ceremoniously deposited within it. But that was only part of its cargo. Inside the canister there was something far more substantial than ashes, half-burnt offal and bits of clothing, something eternal.

Something alive.

Inside the canister there was an essence, a being that still thrived even though all that it once was had been burned away. It was weak, ineffectual, entirely useless, but still it lived, trying to control its motion and speed through space from within the boundaries of its impromptu spacecraft, sending itself clumsily to an unknown resting place above Europa with uncanny precision and accuracy. And all through the empty hours of travel, it had relieved its final moments as a living, breathing creature on the green-blue planet which lay far behind it in the inner solar system:

_Team… out of danger?_

_Yes…_

_Don't grieve, Critic… It is logical… _

For all its supernatural aptitude, the being had a rather faulty memory. It could not remember this "Critic" of which it reminisced. It did, however, remember the way it had expired in great pain on a grassy field of battle after defeating a dark sorcerer threatening the entire world, but that was as far as its recollections reached. Everything else about its former life was dimmed, like photo paper exposed to sunlight. For many months it had relived this last conversation, its only pittance, trying to recall what had been its purpose, its destiny…

_The needs of the many… outweigh…_

_The needs of the few…_

_I was about to say that, douche…_

It did not remember that this was a line from the motion picture _Star Trek II: the Wrath of Khan_, nor did it recall what a "douche" was or why Critic had been such a one in the first place. These lines it had recalled infinite times, with no success in deciphering them at all. It could not place them. They were quotations taken out of context in the greater schematic of its former life. He could not use them here. There was so much that it had forgotten. So many memories…

_I never had much use for that stupid ring until now… _

The ring… It remembered the ring. Somehow by some miracle it remembered that. Where was the ring? It had been lost—stolen, perhaps? Who had stolen it? The Critic? The sorcerer? Whom? Did he even need the ring anymore? Was the ring important? Too many questions with no answers...

_What do you think of my solution?_

Its solution had been to do what? To solve what? To _be_ what? Was this its solution? To float mindlessly through space and orbit Jupiter's moons in an endless spiral of doom for all eternity? This couldn't be it. This couldn't be the end of it. There had to be something else. What had its purpose been? What was its purpose now?

_I have been… and shall always be… your friend…_

Friend? Who was its friend? Who? Critic? Was Critic the friend? What was a friend, anyhow? Was it important? How important was a friend? What was a friend's importance to it? What had _its_ importance been? What had been its past? What was its future? What was its destiny? What?

_What? _

_WHAT?_

_The power… is yours…_

There came a sudden flash of impossible light. The canister was consumed within it, along with all the space for kilometers around. The light ripped across the sky above Europa, forming into a gigantic glowing blob. Where the canister had once floated there now spilled a seething mass of anomalous particles of every size, shape, color and origin gathered into every configuration possible. Its early moments were chaos, an unbound sea of momentum striving every which way, but in time, and with an almost molasses-like grace, it began to take on a new form.

The center—or what could be called the center—of the thing began to draw in the renegade particles, forming the blob into a discus that began to rotate, slowly at first, then faster. A forest of spiral arms unsheathed themselves from the resulting nexus, stretching out far and wide from its epicenter. Bulging colors ran down their lengths, shocking blues and crimsons and emeralds that overlapped with each other, pulsing in time to an unmeasured tempo beating within its center. Now completed, the new form burned in the heavens above the frozen moon, a miniature star enwreathed in the tentacles of some strange beast from a place far beyond the observable universe.

The consciousness that had existed chained within the canister had not been destroyed; on the contrary. It had evolved. It was now the brain of the strange thing that had by sheer chance popped into existence around its funeral vessel. No longer was it aimless, no longer was it directionless, and no longer was it weak. It was now the end, the beginning, and everything in-between. It had become the ultimate being, capable of breaking the laws of physics, rendering causality meaningless and bending all of space-time to its will. And it remembered.

It remembered everything.

Slowly, it rotated to face the world from which it had originated. Far beyond the orbit of Jupiter, there lay the system's star, a bright whitish orb shining in the distance: the Sun. Sol. Apollo. Solaris. Big Shiny. Somewhere near that ball of light lay the little green-blue planet, a world populated by over seven billion semi-primitive ape descendants, the source of its existence, its birthplace, its former life. It had many names in many tongues, one of which was Earth.

There, on that insignificant little world, it would begin.

The thing began to broadcast its strange message out across the distant light-minutes. toward that distant sphere of life spinning endlessly in the eternal not-blackness. It had a plan now, one which involved many things and many players yet to come. Once the message was received, the plot would be set in motion, and the plan it had strived for unknowingly all this time would begin. All it had to do was lie there and wait.

It would not have to wait very long.

* * *

**Channel Awesome Presents**

**A That Guy with the Glasses Production**

**The Final Installment in the "Big Anniversary" Trilogy**

**The Nostalgia Critic and the TGWTG Team**

**In:**

**To Boldly Flee: The Novelization**

**...**

**...**

**If you can read this, you don't need glasses**

* * *

**Author's Notes: **IT BEGINS.

Ladies, gentlemen and others, welcome to the novelization of _To Boldly Flee_. Needless to say, I'm very proud of these three stories, and I promise that this installment is going to be every bit awesome, hilarious, heartbreaking and overall entertaining as the movie was. I also want to sincerely appreciate everyone who's taken the time to read my past stories, write reviews, or simply favorite me as an author. Your kudos keep me rolling, guys. Thanks.

Now, considering the movie's length, I am toying with the idea of splitting the novelization in half. As of the end of Part Four, the story stands at nearly 70,000 words, and I figure when all is said and told the entire thing will have at least twice that many. I have nothing against larger stories, but I figure 130,000 words is a bit much to read through in one sitting, so if you guys could leave feedback with your reviews and say whether or not you want me to split the thing into two "books", that would be great. It's entirely up to you.

Enough idle chat. You're here for story. Settle back, grab several days worth of popcorn and soda, and prepare for the onslaught of fictional science.

-Xoanon


	2. Part 1, Chapter 1

**Part 1: The Truth is Out There**

**Chapter 1: They Thought It Was Orbital Wobble**

_Two possibilities exist: Either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying._

—Arthur C. Clarke

* * *

"Paw" Schuler sat on the hood of his car, granddaddy headphones in their usual place over his ears. It was a bright, clear and cold spring day, with a thin wind blowing steadily from the west that made it even colder. An armada of tall grey clouds had whipped themselves over part of the sky. Their shadows loomed over the array of concave monstrosities entrenched at the far end of the field. They had grown steadily larger, darker and grayer throughout the past hour, and their presence all but ensured that the otherwise pleasant day wouldn't stay pleasant for very much longer.

Paw didn't care about the gathering clouds, or the wind. And he certainly didn't care about the odd looks he was getting from the park's other patrons, who had become rather disconcerted with the way he was sitting on his car's hood, legs drawn up under him and head tucked into his chest. It didn't matter what the gawkers thought. He was on a mission. He was listening for something. Something important.

It was that important something that had drawn him here, to the Albany Riverside Park/SETI Annex, in the hopes that he would find it. The satellite dishes barely a football's throw from him were his link to the stars. It was with those gigantic, blazingly white bowls of science that he would shatter the boundaries of human knowledge, uncover the truth, and bring to light the greatest astronomic revelation of the modern age. He had also hoped to score some of the porn files the lads of the SETI network kept on their hard drives, but to no such avail. Their password protection had been too strong.

But he still had his laptop, and his mind, and the transmission that was slowly feeding into the dishes from deep space—the transmission he was currently listening in on. The signal had to be in there somewhere. He_ hoped_ it would be in there somewhere. For weeks now he'd spent every moment of his spare time in this parking lot sitting on the hood of his car like a giant gaudy hood ornament, ignoring the wind, rain and passersby, listening in vain for a signal that had not yet arrived. So far, all he'd heard in the past week was static. Really annoying static.

Still he kept at it. He had to. It didn't matter if it took him another week, ten more weeks, or even ten more years. He would find it eventually. Through sheer willpower and perseverance he would find it. It was his sacred mission, his calling, his crusade. All the labors he'd undertaken—the countless all-nighters, the endless coffee runs, the constant checking and rechecking of calculations made on objects flying through space at kilometers per second, everything he'd done—had led him to this very point in time. And it was here that all his sacrifices, toil and hard work would finally pay off. Right… now.

Nothing happened.

Now.

Nothing still happened.

And… now.

Nothing continued to happen.

Now?

Nope.

Paw's head slumped even further into his chest. Maybe it wouldn't come today, he thought. Maybe it wouldn't come tomorrow either. Maybe it would never come, and he was just wasting his time sitting here waiting for something that would never happen. Dad was right, he thought. He should give up on this whole "watching the stars" crap and get an easier hobby, like philately, or maybe kickboxing. Without opening his eyes, without admitting defeat, he leaned over to ex out of the monitoring program he was running…

…and then, in that very instant:

_Deet, deet-deet. _

_Deet, deet-deet._

Paw stopped. His hand twitched for a moment over the keypad of his laptop, and then withdrew. It was the signal. The signal he was looking for. He'd found it.

He lifted his head slowly, savoring the moment. The signal grew slightly louder. It pounded in the fibrous cables of his headphones, reverberating into his ears, into his brain—

_Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet. _

It was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard, and concerning how much music he'd listened to in his life that was saying a lot. It was a calming tattoo, soothing in its simplicity, stretched out across outer space like a rubber band about to be flung into the scalp of an unknowing victim. It was a heartbeat, the heartbeat of a giant space baby, and Paw was its space baby-daddy.

But at the same time, it sounded… weird. No, not weird, ominous. That was the word for it; it sounded like something you would hear in a horror flick, only instead of screeching strings it was a pounding drum beat, a constant driving force of evil, a warning. But then again, pretty much all drum beats sounded like that if you hit on the skins hard enough. Paw couldn't have cared less about these ramifications. In his head, the only thought at all—the only one that mattered, at least—was this: he'd found it. That was good enough.

His eyes snapped open. Daylight streamed into them, rendering him temporarily blind. It didn't matter. He looked up into the sky and pressed his headphones to his ears. It was so _loud_. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere. _Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet. _The drum solo of the universe. It was magnificent.

Heart racing, he grabbed up his laptop, rubbing a finger along the track pad. The screen sprang back from hibernation. On it was a full readout of the signal, amplitude, wavelength and all. He studied its contents momentarily, a cursory glance being all he needed to discern its priceless secrets. This was big, he thought. This was more than big; this was gigantically big, and it meant the end of a long dormant period in his career as a part-time astronomer. It was time to call a special meeting of his closest astronomical advisors. He had work to do.

Paw slammed the laptop shut and slid off the hood of the car. A few moments later, the blue Prius with the dinged up fender was hauling metal ass out of the parking lot. He rolled onto the highway at 70 MPH, not caring if he was breaking any laws of man or city council. He had just made a great discovery, and that alone qualified him to speed.

Breaking another important rule of the road, he whipped out his cell phone and dialed the first number in its directory. Headphones clipped in, he listened to the soothing buzz of the line as it wormed its way to its destination. It was good, he thought, but it was surely no _deet deet-deet. _

The phone was answered by a drunken lout: "H-lo? Whozziz?"

"Joe, my man!" Paw said. "How's it hanging?"

"You woke me up," Joe replied. "I was trying to get some sleep. Damn station malfunctions kept me up all last night."

"Are you in orbit right now?" Paw asked.

"Yeah. There was a leak in the engine sector, and the Army needed me to—"

"Is it fixed?"

"What?"

"Did you fix it?"

"Of course I fixed it! You think I wanna lose a multi-billion dollar—?!"

"Great! I need you to use its cosmic geography coordinator in today's meeting. We've just had a _huge_ breakthrough."

"This crap again?" Joe sighed. "Jesus, Paw…"

"I'm serious this time! Call the others and have them mount up for a Skype chat in one hour. We're going to blow the lid off this baby just as soon as I upload the data to my terminal. Paw out."

"If this is another red herring, dude, you are so dead," Joe muttered.

"Trust me. This time it's real." Paw disconnected. He wasn't disconcerted at having interrupted Joe's sleep, or by Joe's caustic mood, or even the death threat he'd just received. Nothing could hurt him today. He was on top of the world. He drove on, the road to scientific glory stretching on endlessly before him, devoid of all stop signs and speed limits.

* * *

Meanwhile, six kilometers up, there floated a behemoth.

It was a crimson and black metallic scorpion over a quarter of a kilometer long and as wide as six semi trucks placed end to end. Fins stuck out of it at all the wrong angles, two pincer-like torpedo bay holding monstrosities protruded from its front. Sunken deep into the crablike body of the thing was a bridge protected by an overlay of agracite-steel, and on that bridge there stood a figure wreathed entirely in black poly-armor. His head was an eggshell with a sea of brown dreadlocks attached to the top. Facial hair of valor was wrapped around both his neck and face. He had travelled to this planet across countless light years of space for one reason and one reason only: vengeance. And tourism. He'd always wanted to see the Earth swine's legendary Fort Knox.

A black-masked crewman stood cringing beside him on the catwalk. The whelp was slave class, no doubt. The way he carried himself was a dead giveaway. Pathetic, the captain thought. He could at least try to look more menacing, maybe murder one of his crewmates in cold blood to show he was a real go-getter. Oh well. He hadn't the leverage with his superiors to choose a better crew for this mission. But that would soon change once they saw his results.

_"Ensign, report!"_ he said.

"We're currently in orbit around the planet, sir," the ensign replied.

_"I know that, genius! I can see it right in front of me!" _He gestured to the large, blue-greenish blob swimming in front of the ultra-glass of the bridge's viewports. _"What of the local authorities? Have they been alerted to our presence?"_

"No sign of anything from planetary news feeds, sir. They're completely oblivious."

_"The teleporter?"_

"Primed and ready, sir."

_"Our contact on the surface?"_

"Currently moving south-southeast at a leisurely pace, sir."

_"That insolent automaton! I told him I wanted at least brisk!"_ He clenched and unclenched his gloved fist, slowly dispersing his rage at his client's insubordination. _"What time is the hearing?"_

"Eight A.M., sir."

_"Excellent!"_ He turned his back to the viewports at the front of the bridge, unable to bear looking at that horrible rock any longer. All that water and vegetation just lying there unused, unprocessed! It was so pristine, so untamed, so unlike his homeworld that it made him want to vomit profusely on everything within range. But he withheld. He would only have to brave this backwater garbage-hole for a few hours more, and then his victory would be complete. Never again would he have to trouble himself with the affairs of man-apes.

_"Ensign!"_ he barked suddenly_. "Have me notified when the clock strikes seven-oh-fifty-five. I shall be in my quarters ruminating on my memoirs until then. Dismissed!" _

"Sir!" The underling scurried off to stuff his face with potato chips, or whatever it was slave-class did when they weren't serving their galactic betters. He walked back down the catwalk and through the posterior bulkhead, his gait a dignified half-lope, his mind ablaze in the words with which he would stupefy the human judge presiding over his case.

It was sure to be a delicious victory, he thought. When he was finished with his day in court, the last obstacle to his glorious renaissance would fall, and his dead race would rest in peace knowing that they had been avenged, the scum that had annihilated them having been wiped utterly from the face of the cosmos. That pitiful, scrounging creature dressed in rags with the mind of a corrupted child, the one who had humiliated him and destroyed his entire planet, was about to face his destiny.

His name was The Nostalgia Critic.

_"Impertinent fool,"_ he chuckled. _"While he was still learning to spell his name, I was being trained to conquer galaxies!"_ He laughed, long and hard, annoying his subordinates greatly. The ship continued in its slow orbit around the Earth.

* * *

It waited patiently as information trickled back to it from the third planet. The signal had been discovered. Good. It was only a matter of time before it was expounded on, and the plot would at last begin to move. It was a brilliant one, to say the least. It had everything: action, drama, romance, comedy, horror, and much more. It was big, too, ensuring a more-than-satisfactory role for all the major players that were to take part in it. It would certainly be a story for the ages, one that would be remembered for a long time to come.

And like every plot, it was bound to have a few holes.

_Soon, _it whispered, its ethereal words rippling out into space-time. _Soon..._

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Part One was probably the soundest part of the movie. It had good setup, good comedy, and surprisingly good pathos. It was a little hard to keep all the strings going at once, and a few scenes had to be moved around or cut for dramatic purposes, but for the most part all the good stuff you saw is still in there.

Because of the sheer number of chapters this story has, we're going to have a much faster update schedule than the last two stories. I'll be releasing one chapter will be released every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Not that I want to get this done quickly or anything, but like I said I've already got half the story written, so why wait?

Check back on Friday for Chapter 2.

-Xoanon


	3. Part 1, Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Old Wounds**

_Nostalgia_ (nä-ˈstal-jə), _noun. From the Greek words 'nostos', meaning 'return home' and 'algos', meaning 'pain'. A wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition._

—Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 11th Edition

* * *

The Nostalgia Critic woke up.

He didn't stir. He made no attempt to move, or even blink. It took him a few moments to realize that he was awake, and back in bed, with the strangest feeling that something or someone somewhere was watching him. He had been dreaming that weird dream again. It was always the same dream nowadays, the one with him walking in darkness, the one that always ended the same way, with him falling into a vortex, waking up just before he reached its blinding singularity. It wasn't a scary dream; he'd had it so many times it wasn't even annoying to go through anymore. It just felt normal now.

He sat up slowly. Even with the curtains drawn, the room was flooded with the soft light of mid-morning. He looked all around. The bed with its kaleidoscope black and white sheets was still the same, the dresser drawers flanking it were still the same, and the shelves in front of the bed holding the TV were still the same. The entire room was still the same; it was a big flaming nuclear heap of sameness. He even still had his black criticizing hat on, the one he always slept with in case a midnight review of something god-awful busted in for a visit.

Yet, even with all the same permeating the entire room, somehow things still didn't feel right. The house was colder than usual. No, not colder. Colder wasn't the right word for it. The house was frozen. It had felt like this for months, a malaise impossible to explain in greater terms than a vague perception of temperature. It was quiet too, impossibly quiet, and impossibly dull. It felt as if the entire place was trapped in a giant bubble of amber. Nothing annoying, interesting or terrifying had happened to him for weeks. There was no doubt about it; things in The Critic's domain were off. And he knew why they felt that way.

Ma-Ti.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Of course, he thought, of course it was Ma-Ti. It had been Ma-Ti every single day since the battle. Why wouldn't it be him today? Why wouldn't the fact that he'd let a cherished friend die be the thing that haunted him every waking moment for the rest of his life? Any other person on the planet would possess enough intelligence to single that event out as the sole cause of their paralyzing guilt complex. Not him.

He was too big of an ass-muncher for that, wasn't he?

The Critic pulled back the covers and swung his legs onto the floor. He walked over to the closet door, and slid it open. Inside were several articles of clothing from past adventures. There was a green shirt and hat with no pants, his Link costume from the search for Malachite's Hand. He pushed it aside. There was a tan jumpsuit with an anti-ghost sticker on one sleeve, his Ghostbuster's uniform, which he also pushed aside. Another was a set of leather pants, a vest, silk garters and a wig, his Dr. Frank N. Furter costume from last Halloween. He swept that and all the other garments in the closet to the side casually, opting instead for the black jacket and red tie he'd worn so many times before. He pulled it out of the closet and slid the door shut.

Putting it on was almost like putting on a second skin. As he drew the tie up into its half-Windsor and pulled on the ratty coat, his thoughts turned to what day it was. Today was the first anniversary of the search for Malachite's Hand, exactly one year to the day they'd begun the quest for the magic artifact that had led to Ma-Ti's untimely demise. Of course, he'd managed to forget that too, as well as the little memorial service he'd prepared for when this unhappy day rolled around. There was no Pop-Tart-laden shrine for him to place out on the drainage field today. Oh well. It wouldn't be out of character for him to do something so callous.

Fully dressed, The Critic walked out of his bedroom and headed down the stairs to the kitchen, where, after grabbing a bagel from the counter, he headed down the stairs again to the living room. On the far side of the room lay the computer desk, upon which lay his journal, the one he'd barely written anything in for months, gathering dust. He decided that today would be the day for another entry; if he couldn't commemorate Ma-Ti's sacrifice physically, then he would write his dead friend an ode. A long shot, but it could happen.

He sat down and pulled the journal toward him, grabbing a pen from the nearby cup. He opened the journal to its last entry, June 7th, and went one page further. For a long while he sat there staring at it. It was nothing but a blank whiteness, a blizzard of endless possibilities, an invisible forest of new and grand potentialities that he was about to destroy with his clumsy prose and careless spelling errors. He put his pen to the paper and began:

_Critic's Log, _he wrote. _Stardate… _

He couldn't remember exactly what day today was. He hadn't been able to discern any of them lately; they all seemed to run together, like the colors of Skittles in a downpour. He ventured a not-too-far-off guess:

_Thursday. Things are going fine, sort of. Rob stopped by yesterday. We talked for a while. He saw Mom at the nursing home earlier. Don't think the medicine they're giving her is working. He said she talked about me the last time he visited, called me "the needy one". He stopped before she got to the really foul stuff. _

The Critic also stopped. Reminiscing about his parents was one of his least favorite pastimes. It was also, unfortunately, one of his most prolific. He started a new paragraph:

_It's been about one year since our battle with Malachite. One whole year. I still can't believe it. We won. We sent a homicidal dark lord threatening to send everyone back to the dark ages whether they wanted to go or not packing. If that's not a great achievement, I don't know what is. Shame we can't really tell anybody though. But I suppose it's best for people not to know about it. One crazy magic-wielding Luddite is enough. _

_And yet with him gone I still feel a certain unease. I can't really place the feeling, but I know what's causing it. It's Ma-Ti. I still miss him. His death left a hole in my heart, Critic's Log, a hole that can't be filled easily. I've tried grief counseling, therapy, acupuncture, even that electro-shock stuff again. Nothing's worked. I know I said I could try to ride it out, but it's been an entire year. The ride's been going on for a pretty long time, and I don't know how much more of it I can take. _

He stopped. He thought he heard a noise in the corner. It was nothing; just the house settling. He continued on:

_The other critics have returned to their jobs, to their reviews, and for them life goes on. But for me? Well, let's just say it hasn't been easy. The house feels empty without Ma-Ti. It's like my twenty-six year old freeloading Indian child has finally left for college, never to return. It's the same feeling all parents get, I guess, minus the celebratory keggers and fireworks. _

_It's a feeling I'm not really used to, Critic's Log. It's as if I'm totally alone without him. Sure, I've got Rob, but he's got his own life and friends. He doesn't need me hanging around. I'd just "cramp his style", or whatever. I've got Mom and Dad too, I guess, but they're getting on in years, and I'm pretty sure Mom doesn't even remember my name half the time. My friends? The only friends I have are the other critics on the site, and chances are after last year's fiasco they don't want anything to do with me. Girlfriend? Ha._

_And yet I'm still here, Critic's Log, and Ma-Ti is still gone. I know now I can't bring him back; that Necronomicon dealy Chester found didn't work. But I still want to. More than anything else in the world I want to. I want to talk to him just one last time, to apologize, to explain, to tell him how important he really was to me, but I can't. He's gone, and he's never coming back._

_Wherever you are, Ma-Ti, I just want you to know I'm sorry._

_Sincerely, _

The Critic faltered, then wrote:

_Doug _

He shut the journal, the pages closing with a dry snap. He didn't think he was going to write more tomorrow. He didn't want to. He opened desk drawer, hoping to shove the diary into it, be before he could do so he stopped. There was something else inside. It was a framed picture of Ma-Ti.

Carefully, he reached in and pulled it out, discarding the journal back on the desk. It wasn't exactly a good picture. Ma-Ti's head was cocked sideways, eyes bulging and lips peeled back in a snarl, or roar, or both. Even so, the mere sight of it was enough to give The Critic's heartstrings a sound plucking. He put it back in, shut the drawer tight, and put his head in one hand. Things were getting worse. He had to talk to somebody.

But who would spare him the time? Rob, Spoony and Linkara were all probably too busy, and those were the three people he could reasonably expect to stay on the line long enough to even begin talking to him. Everyone else in his address book would probably hang up as soon as it registered that they were speaking to The Nostalgia Critic. Except Phelous. He would probably groan in disgust, and then hang up.

But then again, he'd always had one particularly loyal fan…

Curious, The Critic pulled his iPhone from his pocket. He didn't know the time differential between Chicago and Swindon, but it probably didn't matter. Film Brain was far too hyper to know the difference between day and night anyway. He dialed the number. The line buzzed for a few moments, then:

"Hello?"

"Hey Film Brain," The Critic said.

"Nostalgia Critic!" Film Brain said cheerily. "How wonderful to hear your voice! What have I done wrong?"

"What?"

"Well it's just that whenever you contact one of your reviewers it's either to criticize them or to fire them," Film Brain replied. "Should I start begging now?"

"Well, actually…"

"OH PLEASE DON'T FIRE ME, MR. CRITIC! I PROMISE I'LL GET YOU THE COFFEE YOU LIKE NEXT TIME! THE ONE WITH THE DIAMOND ON THE LABEL!"

"No, Film Brain," The Critic reassured, holding the phone away from his ear. "I'm not calling to fire you. It's just… I just needed somebody to talk to right now, and I thought you'd be the only person who'd listen."

"Oh," Film Brain said, calming down. "Well anything in particular you'd like to discuss?"

"I don't know. It's just…" The Critic sighed. "Do you ever wonder what it's like to be forgotten? To be cast aside, to be left in the dust? To be ignored when you do something right and ridiculed when you do something wrong?"

"…Well now that you mention it—"

"I didn't think so," The Critic interrupted. "Anyway, I've been thinking about Ma-Ti, y'know? I never thought I'd end up actually missing him."

"You're probably feeling guilty," Film Brain suggested.

"No, that's not it."

"Okay, sure."

"I feel like I have no choice in anything, like I'm powerless," The Critic continued. "I mean, everything I do seems to have a negative impact on somebody. With Ma-Ti, I was just trying to get rid of him, and I ended up killing him instead. I just wish there was some way I could fix it..."

"How?" Film Brain asked. "You dumped his ashes into an oatmeal can and then launched him into space."

"Yeah, that was a weird request in his will."

"Which you wrote…"

"He would have wanted it that way."

"After his death…"

"As I had to."

"In his coagulating blood…"

"Well if _somebody_ had had a pen…"

Film Brain sighed. "Look, Critic. If this is the problem you're having… and I think it is, you're just going to have to come to terms with the fact that Ma-Ti is part of that complete breakfast in the sky now. You're just going through the Five Stages of Grief. It's totally natural, and eventually it'll end. Which stage are you at now?"

"Is 'listlessness' one of the stages?"

"No…"

"Alright," The Critic said, giving up. "I'm sorry I bothered you, Mat. Just go back to making reviews."

"Of course! And if you ever need someone to talk to again—"

The Critic hung up. Some help that had been, he thought. Then again, he supposed, the problem was most likely on his end. He'd never really been good at talking to Film Brain, or anybody else on the site for that matter. All he did was shout and give orders, orders that didn't really accomplish anything and only served to make matters a whole lot worse for everyone following them, but orders nonetheless. That was how he worked. He was a delusional, half-witted incompetent general in a hopeless war that didn't need fighting. That was his only purpose, to be an abject, abysmal, colossal failure from now until the end of time. Whoopee.

He looked down.

The picture of Ma-Ti was in his lap.

He faltered. That was odd. Hadn't he put it back in the desk drawer?

A "ding-dong" immediately shook these thoughts from The Critic's head. He got up, leaving the picture in the chair, and crossed the living room to the front door and opened it. Standing there was a serious, well-groomed man in a grey business suit. He regarded The Critic in the same manner that many people regard hoboes. With wariness, and a vague hint of contempt.

"Mr. Nostalgia Critic?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"You're being placed under house arrest."

"What! On what charge?"

The man in grey withdrew a small placard from his pocket and began to read:

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The Critic's inner motivation was pretty easy to write: take one part guilt, add two parts loneliness and depression, shake well with isolation, and serve with self-loathing in two thousands words or more. It was a little harder to reconcile all that with him forging a will in Ma-Ti's blood, but I think I managed alright. He's kind of regretting everything he's done up to this point, even if he won't admit it to anyone else, and I don't really blame him. It's kind of hard to put the brakes on five years of jerk just like that.

Chapter Three is coming Wednesday. Prepare for ham...

-Xoanon


	4. Part 1, Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: A Suit of Cards**

_There is no belief, however foolish, that will not gather its faithful adherents who will defend it to the death._

—Isaac Asimov

* * *

_"Terrorism! Murder! Mayhem!" _The captain screamed out these points from the plaintiff's chair, pounding a fist on the table in front of him with each one made. _"And not to mention, complete and utter disrespect for absolutely brilliant filmmaking! These are the charges against the internet personality 'Nostalgia Critic', and I will not rest until he faces the cruel hand of justice!" _

As he sat back down, the spectators in the courtroom of the District of Columbia Superior Court began murmuring various questions to one another. No one really believed they had heard those sentences correctly. What was this case about again, they asked? Why was this weirdo after some guy called The Nostalgia Critic? And, most importantly of all, who really cared enough to stay and sit through the whole thing?

The judge, a bald southern man wearing a bow tie and horn rimmed glasses, leaned forward and asked: "Who are you?"

_"For the eighth time, I am Terl!" _the captain assumedly called "Terl" said, waving a hand foppishly in the air. _"Last survivor of the planet Psychlo, heir to the once-mighty Psychlo Empire, and I am here to convince your feeble minds that The Nostalgia Critic is a renegade and terrorist!"_

He turned to the bailiff in the corner, who had plugged his strange-looking portable computer he'd brought with him (a "compu-drive", he'd called it) into one of the courtroom's wall outlets with the help of several jumper cables, a power strip, and various other bits of wiring. _"Roll the footage!" _he cried. The bailiff touched the orange button on the back, and the small machine whirred to life. After many bleeps and clanks, a ray of energy shot out from the thing's frontal node onto the projector screen on the opposite side of the room.

An image of a man in a black suit and hat with a red tie flickered into view. He was talking to someone. No one knew what he was saying because the compu-drive's sound card wasn't working properly. Terl began his excited demonstration:

_"See here! This is the exact moment in which he destroyed my home planet!" _Terl pointed an accusing finger at the screen as the picture jumped to a shot of him flailing around, eyes bulging and arms flapping wildly. And then the screen went white. The courtroom's audience began to laugh.

_"It's not funny! He actually blew it up! And not only that—" _He pressed a button on his remote control glove, and the screen showed another reel of footage. This time it showed a gaudy-looking army charging toward a man dressed in a green general's uniform in the middle of a desert. _"The Critic also invaded a micronation, torturing its population for weeks and causing hundreds of dollars in property damage, and then stole a valuable ancient artifact suffused with nigh-infinite magical power!" _

The audience laughed again. This time the screen showed the red-tied man dressed in what looked like a green pillowcase holding a Power Glove with a gem glued to it standing next to a man in a red wig and cape. Terl grimaced, but ignored their mockery.

_"And, most damning of all—" _The footage jumped to the man and Terl talking to each other again. _"The Critic _dared_ to besmirch the name of my cinematic masterpiece _Battlefield Earth_! Such an odious crime was punishable by death on my homeworld! To deny its greatness is inexcusable and unkind!" _The footage disappeared, the compu-drive shutting off with a weak hiccup. _"In conclusion, 'Your Honor', I demand that The Critic be extradited to Psychlo authority, namely me, to be properly punished for his crimes! I demand justice!" _

The judge began slowly: "Mr. Hurl…"

_"Terl!" _

"Whatever. From what I can gather based on the images you've shown, there's a durn good chance that none of your evidence can be backed up by a report filed with any legal authority within these United States. All I have to go on is your word, and, as loud and grating as it is, I'm afraid hearsay is inadmissible in a civil trial. Also, from what I understand, your movie _Battlefield Earth_ got only a two percent rating on Rotten Tomaters. Under the Supreme Court's ruling in _The People v. John Travolta_, that alone is grounds for your case's dismissal. Case dismissed." The judge banged his gavel.

_"What? That's bullcrap!" _Terl cried. _"Who the hell cares what Rotten Tomatoes says? It's run by pasty cinema nerds who have no idea what makes a good film! This is a conspiracy! A conspiracy I say! These internet reviewers clearly have too much power!" _

"I'm sorry, Mr. Towel, but the ruling was unanimous," the judge replied. "It's a moot point, anyway. This morning I received word from the Senate Judiciary Committee on their current work regarding Fair Use. When they pass the SUCKA bill later this year—"

_"SUCKA bill?"_

"Stop the Unstoppable Copyright Killers Act," the judge explained. "When they pass that bill, reviewers like The Nostalgier Critic won't even be in business anymore."

_"Then The Critic goes unpunished?" _Terl asked. _"Is this how justice is supposed to work on your screwy planet? He blew up my home! He killed all my friends! I had a wife and kids, and now they're nothing but radioactive dust!"_

"The Nostalgier Critic won't go unpunished, rest assured," the judge waved a hand. "Once the bill passes muster, he'll be charged with…" He reached for the readout of The Critic's major warrants the courtroom clerk handed to him. "…over 17,164 counts of copyright violation by the FCC. From there on out, it's Gitmo's problem."

_"FCC regulations?" _Terl shouted. "_Oh wow, that's a huge fucking relief to my dead race! The Nostalgia Critic, unrepentant murderer of the entire Psychlo Empire, is going to be imprisoned indefinitely for violating bureaucratic red tape rather than being rightly beaten to death with the ceremonial truncheon-stick of my people! Oh happy day!"_

"Mr. Tariff, if you don't control yourself, you're going to be beaten with this court's version of the ceremonial truncheon-stick." The judge motioned to the bailiffs, who moved toward Terl to restrain his violently hammy outbursts. Terl, undaunted, leapt up on top of the plaintiff's table.

"_Remember this well, stupid humans!" _he snarled. _"You have made a tremendous mistake this day! There will be no peace between our planets as long as The Nostalgia Critic lives! I vow, by the severed, irradiated heads of my fallen comrades, that I will—"_

Suddenly, a blaring guitar solo burst into the room, drowning out Terl's passionate declaration that he would slit The Critic's throat and bathe in his blood. It was accompanied by a thin red smoke that wafted down from the ventilation shafts in the ceiling, and a message that was lit up in neon writing on the projector screen inviting the spectators to CATCH THE THIRST of something. A voiceover crackled to life in the ceiling speakers:

**_*THIS VOW IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY ENERGODA, THE NEW SODA ENERGY DRINK FROM THE MAKERS OF BRAWNDO!* _**the voiceover said._***IT'S NOT AN ENERGY DRINK, IT'S NOT A SODA! IT'S ENERGODA!***_

_"Wait, what the hell?" _Terl said over the continuing guitar music. _"Are you putting a commercial over my dramatic speech?"_

"For the people watching the live broadcast," the judge replied casually. "With budget cutbacks, the government's trying to get extra money from in-trial advertisements." He turned to the plethora of whirring cameras at the back of the room and smiled wide. "Eat at Mega-Pizza, located at Fourteenth and Georgia in Columbia Heights. Mega-Pizza: it's the cheesiest."

_"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?" _Terl screamed to the ceiling._ "WE ARE TALKING ABOUT A MASS-MURDERING DICTATOR ASSHOLE, AND YOU'RE HOCKING FUCKING ENERGY DRINKS? WHAT THE FUCK!? SHOW A LITTLE DECENCY HERE! I MEAN, MY PEOPLE WERE ABSOLUTE CUTTHROAT CAPITALISTS, BUT WE WOULD NEVER—" _

**_*THIS HEARTFELT PLEA FOR SANITY IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY ENERGY CHIPS, THE NEW CHIP INFUSED WITH ENERGY FROM THE MAKERS OF SNAKSPLOSION! THEY'RE NOT CHIPS, THEY'RE NOT ENERGY INFUSIONS! ACTUALLY YES THEY ARE BECAUSE THEY'RE ENERGY CHIPS! BUY SOME TODAY!*_**

"Bailiffs, escort Mr. Tambourine out," the judge said, popping an Energy Chips sample into his mouth. The bailiffs grabbed Terl and hoisted him down from the table. Terl fought them with every ounce of strength he had. It wasn't supposed to end like this, he thought. They were supposed to be agreeing with him, cheering him on and demanding The Critic's head be placed on a platter forthwith!

_"This isn't over, you chimp-apes!" _he vowed, struggling against the men gripping his arms. _"On my honor, you will remember Terl of the planet Psychlo! Your precious energy sodas and chips won't protect you from my wrath! In fact, they'll probably make you far easier to hunt down and exterminate! You'll see! You'll all see!"_

"Next case on the docket: _The People vs. Energy Chips LLC_," the judge said, rising from his seat. "Five minutes, please. These durn things are going through me like Hot Pockets."

* * *

A man in a black suit watched the live broadcast, grimacing as they carted Terl out of the courtroom like Hannibal Lecter. The state of justice in the country was appalling, he thought. Here was a man (at least he assumed it was a man) with a legitimate complaint concerning the death of his people at the hands of a copyright law-breaking scoundrel being buried beneath a tsunami of crass commercials and adverts. Granted, those commercials were the vital and highly patriotic right of corporations to express themselves as human beings, but it was a damned shame nonetheless.

He switched off the TV and turned to his office aide, a young black man sitting in front of his desk, glasses pressed to his face and notebook in hand. He had barely started working in the office less than a month ago as preparation for a position in a local law firm. He was here to study examples of law-shirking thieves like The Nostalgia Critic who pilfered copyrighted works for use in their so-called "reviews". Judging by what the two of them had just seen, today's lesson was to be an important one indeed.

"You see what I've been telling you?" he said, gesturing to the darkened screen. He had a slightly murky British accent, a holdover from his youth in Sussex. "This is a severe miscarriage of justice, and the blame squarely falls on shiftless reviewers, those consummate snowball artists dedicated to the collapse of polite society."

"Yes, sir," the aide replied nasally, nodding his head.

"It's an insidious act, the reviewer's game," the black-suited man continued. "People tune into these bozos thinking they're watching 'reviews', but instead they're exposed to scatological rants filed with pop culture references and shysters who hold their opinions up as the gospel. It's madness, Walter, mass-produced moronic madness. And I for one won't have it!"

"But sir—"

"I didn't leave that socialist nightmare in England just to see it take root again here! I came here for the freedom, the prosperity, and the total lack of government-mandated healthcare! I came here to be an agent of His Presidency's Government, to aid in catching criminal lawbreakers who flaunt the copyright protections of these United States! I even penned a good chunk of SUCKA myself just to prove that anyone with half a brain can write decent and fair copyright laws!"

"Sir, all I'm saying is that some people might think you're overreacting," Walter interrupted calmly. "I mean, we've received thousands of letters over the past two months from citizens protesting SUCKA, asking if there's really a need for it at all." He laughed nervously, failing to diffuse the growing volcanism in his employer's face. "I know you're the bill's author and biggest sponsor and all, sir, but to tell you the truth, a lot of people don't really seem to think of internet criticism as a threat to copyright."

The man in black chuckled, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Ah, Walter my boy," he said, "I remember a time when I was as naïve as you. But you've got to open your eyes to the truth. These charlatans are threatening freedom! Their constant sniping at Hollywood's releases are stifling freedom of speech, hurting the economy by draining box office receipts, and generally making it harder for our corporate oligarchies to make life hospitable for the rest of us. _Smurfs 2 _may have to be cancelled…"

Walter the aide gasped, a sound resembling a dog being run over by an eighteen-wheeler.

"And what of our nation's many other beloved franchises: _Transformers, Pirates of the Caribbean, Alvin and the Chipmunks? _Are we to just stand idly by and let them disappear? There could be no more "squeakuels" in under a decade. One decade!"

"With all due respect, sir, I think audience disinterest—"

"Inconceivable!" The man slammed a hand down on his armrest. "What audience could possibly deny the greatness of these movies? _Alvin and the Chipmunks 4: Chipmunks Eating Poo _is the epitome of high art!"

"People… were actually paid to write that?"

"I wrote half it myself," the man said proudly. "And I expect to see it released in January of 2013, come hell or high water." He pointed a pen at Walter, who cowered at its point. "Find this 'Terl' fellow immediately, Walter. His testimony could be of some use to us in the future. In the meantime, I shall be drafting a new and highly important internet policy."

"For what part of the internet?" Walter asked.

"…All of it, of course," the man in black replied coolly. "Off you go."

Walter departed, and the man turned to his computer. It wasn't on. He felt around on it for anything—a button of some sort, he'd been told. Was it a button, or a switch?—to turn it on. He failed to find it within ten seconds of awkward, fumbling searching. Frustrated, he picked up the phone and pressed "3" on the keypad. It was a direct line to the IT guy downstairs.

"Hello? Yes, Arthur, it's me again," he said. "I still can't find the button that turns it on… Yes, really… Really…"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Terl's scene was fun to write. I have no idea how his case fits into legal procedure, though.

Casting (spoilers) Lame R. Prick as a Congressman was just to make him a closer analogue to Lamar Smith, introducer of the SOPA bill. I'm not sure if the movie said anything about his job. He was just supposed to be a generic government thug. I like to think of him as a guy who genuinely believes what he's doing is right, and he just gets a little overzealous in the defense of freedom from the "terrrrists" who want to usurp copyright. Doug's writing isn't exactly the strongest here, but I won't fault him for being passionate about his business, and also because SOPA is a pretty crappy bill. I'm against it and am pretty sure it would ruin all the good parts of the internet if it were ever passed. It's probably not coming back, though; it was sent to committee back in January for "retooling". Bills always die when they're sent back to committee in Congress. As for Prick being a Brit... he sounded a little British to me.

If you politically-minded types want a better, non freedom-stifling bill to support, try OPEN. It includes a stopgap for any new anti-piracy laws, and it's backed by actual websites rather than the collective movie and music industries. You can read the entire thing at keep the web open, a website run by the bill's sponsor Darrell Issa.

-Xoanon


	5. Part 1, Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: A Meeting of the Geeks**

_The sky calls to us. If we do not destroy ourselves, we will one day venture to the stars._

—Carl Sagan

* * *

Paw jumped out of his car, leaving it idling in the driveway, and sped into the house. His desktop computer was already on, making the process of transferring the data from his laptop infinitely quicker. Fingers trembling, he plugged in the USB cord and brought up the Astronalysis data playback program. A loading bar began to inch across the screen. He brought up the Skype icon that was purring in the dock menu. Three separate screens flickered into view, indicating that the other members of Paw's clique were already online. Excellent. He pulled a second pair of headphones on over his first and tapped on its attached mike. The awesomeness was about to begin.

"I call this emergency meeting of the Space Research Committee to order," he said. "Roll call, everybody sound off."

"CR, present." Chad "CR" Rocco, wearing his vest of many buttons, raised a hand casually in the lower right hand corner of the screen. As vice-scientist in charge of experimental calculations and data analysis, it was his job to troll through the data Paw gathered from the skies for incoming signs of knowledge from space, a highly important job that, according to him, was "really, really boring".

"That Sci-Fi Guy, present," Leo Thompson, AKA That Sci-Fi Guy, yawned from the upper left. He was in charge of fact-checking, data analysis when CR didn't feel like doing it, and coordination with other scientific bodies—NASA, the ESA, and others. So far, the only thing he'd received from these agencies were messages telling them that he'd been added to a terrorist watch list monitored by both the NSA and Interpol.

Two members down, one to go. "Angry Joe" Vargas, owner and operator of the fifth most powerful radio telescope in Earth orbit, was slumped in the lower left corner of the screen on a swivel chair, snoring away loudly. Paw sighed. At least he'd managed to get everyone together before falling asleep again.

"Joe? Come in, Angry Joe," he said, tapping his microphone again. Onscreen, Joe awoke and rubbed his eyes groggily.

"Present. And ready to kill you…" he mumbled.

"Alright," Paw said ecstatically. "Let this meeting commence! _Astro semper fidelis!" _

_ "For delis!" _CR said.

_"Fad phallus!"_ That Sci-Fi Guy agreed.

"Yeah, _Fidel es_… what they said…" Joe groaned, still rubbing his eyes.

"Okay," Paw began. "As you all know, when the three of us started this Space Research Committee, we had one goal in mind:"

"To get rich!" Joe said emphatically.

"No! To boldly find what no man has found before!"

"And get rich off it!"

"And for all the time we've spent on this project—night after night spent combing the stars for answers to our many questions—what have we encountered?" Paw asked.

The other three thought for a moment.

"Rocks," Joe said.

"Rocks," CR said.

"A shitload of rocks," That Sci-Fi Guy said.

"Okay, so maybe we haven't had a whole bunch of successes…"

"We haven't had any successes," CR pointed out.

"Yes we have!"

"What about that rock that turned out to be a cluster of rocks?" That Sci-Fi Guy replied.

"Okay, I admit that was kind of a snafu…"

"And that top-secret Department of Defense project we accidentally ruined?" CR chimed in.

"Well it was kind of creepy what they were doing to our rutabagas…"

"And then there was that thing you thought was a UFO…" Joe started.

"…but it turned out it was just a rock," CR finished.

"Okay, fine!" Paw admitted. "We haven't discovered anything worth reporting on in the six months we've been at this, and the only knowledge we've gained up to this point is that rutabagas don't respond very well to ionizing radiation and benzene! Well no more!"

"No more rocks, UFOs or rutabagas?" That Sci-Fi Guy said.

"No more of all of the previous! Take a little listen at what I heard today…"

The download from the laptop was complete. Paw called up the program and opened the recorded file. He clicked the "play" button, and the siren song started up immediately. The others heard it, heard its hypnotic, pounding rhythm, and immediately they leaned closer in their chairs to listen…

_Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet. _

"Is… is that?" CR said.

"It is," Paw replied, nodding serenely.

_Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet._

"Okay, I am running a scan..." That Sci-Fi Guy pulled his own laptop toward him and began typing furiously. He opened his own recording program, and it sampled the strange circadian pulse emanating from his desktop speakers to analyze it further.

"I'll see if I can get a lock on it!" Joe, snapping out of his languor, rolled over to his station's heavy-duty telescope module and began calibrating it for a new projection. The module rotated to beam its radio waves out into what appeared to be deep space. Meanwhile, that Sci-Fi Guy's program beeped, indicating that its sonic scan was complete.

"All preliminaries checking out as green. This is legit, guys," he said.

"Listen to the pulse on that thing," CR marveled, doing some quick calculations on a sketch pad he had nearby. "Wave amplitude is… 23.3 gigahertz? Is that right?"

"I know! Its gravitational pull has to be stupendous!" Paw excitedly whirled around in his chair. "This could be the biggest discovery in graviton-derived astrophysics since the Moderately Sized Attractor of '87!"

"Whatever this thing is, it's gigantic," Sci-Fi Guy concurred. "I've got Dr. Wiki running mass comparisons on all possible entities within the Solar System. So far, nothing's come close to matching it except for the gas giants and the Sun."

"Tracking complete, satellite's got a lock," Joe announced. "According to my readout, the source point is confirmed as… Jupiter?"

"Jupiter?" CR repeated.

"Yeah, and—"

There was a "bing" as the picture Joe's telescope had snapped made its way to the other three's computers simultaneously. "Is it just me, or does it look like it's getting bigger?"

Paw, CR, and Sci-Fi Guy all leaned forward to get a closer look at the telescope's snapshot. It showed a cosmic vortex inside a wreath of tentacles, like a terrifying celestial octopus of some kind. Some calculations were scribbled across the bottom of the picture in machine-stenciled writing, along with some terrifying new facts. The thing's cosmic absorption rate had been calculated as .02 grams per meter per hour. In other words, it _was _growing, albeit very slowly.

Sobered, Paw leaned back carefully in his chair. "Gentlemen, as Leader Proctor of the club, I am declaring a state of Orange Alert, Code 15-Delta A," he said. "Angry Joe, I want your monitoring equipment running fulltime from now on. This thing is way too big to leave hanging, and I mean that literally."

"Understood, cap'n," Joe replied with a salute.

"CR, you and Sci-Fi Guy keep running scans on the data we have. See if you can figure out if the growth rate is due to increase anytime soon. In the meantime, I'll try and get on the horn to NASA, since Sci-Fi Guy's phone number's been blocked."

"What for?" Sci-Fi Guy asked.

"An anomaly of this size and magnitude requires detailed analysis, which our instruments and technology are too weak to do at a distance," Paw said, taking his cell phone out of his pocket once again. "NASA's the first and foremost authority on space in the country—"

"Until they junked the Space Shuttle program, that is," CR huffed.

"—and if we tell them about this then they can probably get us some better equipment, or, failing that, a ride into space from Baikonur to study it at the International Space Station."

"You really think they'll let civilians on board the ISS?" Sci-Fi Guy said.

"Civilians with no money, credentials, or professional training in astronomy, astrophysics or anything related to space whatsoever?" Joe added.

"Anything's possible," Paw replied, taking off his glasses and looking upward at the ceiling. "We must be optimistic, gentlemen, as we leap headlong into this new discovery. So long as we keep clear heads and open hearts, there are no obstacles that we cannot overcome. The boundaries of today are merely the waypoints of tomorrow, and the boundaries of the future are the waypoints of today. There is nothing that cannot be accomplished by trust in our fellow scientists, loyalty to the scientific method, and faith in progress everlasting. We..."

"Is he going to stop at some point?" Sci-Fi Guy asked as Paw went into a tangent involving the majesty of space, stemming the tide of ignorance, and rutabagas.

"His last speech clocked in at around four hours. We're not going anywhere anytime soon," CR responded grimly, retrieving popcorn and a soda from underneath his desk.

* * *

The house was on fire. Its oak beams were already severely weakened by the flames, sagging low above the shattered entryway. The smell of charred wood filled the air. The entire ground floor was a complete wreck from the damage done during the fight, debris and smashed belongings still strewn everywhere. Smoke reached up into the sky in tendrils of grayish-black soot. The fire was spreading quickly. If it were left unchecked, then soon enough it would catch on the nearby houses, creating a conflagration that would consume the entire neighborhood within minutes. It would burn for hours. Many lives were at risk.

Good.

And yet, even in spite of this recent diversion, he was still in a bad mood. For over a year now he'd been drifting aimlessly around the Midwest, never stopping, never staying two nights in the same place. Considering the things he liked to do to alleviate the disgust and the anger he felt at every living thing that crossed his path, it was for the best. The house had been the latest in a long line of attempts to "blow off steam", as the humans called it. It was all he could do to keep his mental circuits from snapping, to keep the servos in his arms and legs taught and ready for battle. It had been a diversion, pure and simple, and the people inside had meant nothing to him.

Of course, most of the people in this house had just been bystanders, close friends and family of the man he'd really wanted to get at ever since he'd arrived in Woodbury, Minnesota. They'd been throwing a party of some sort, some stupid nonsense celebrating the release of a new comic book starring some overpowered costumed flesh-bag—"Man-Power", his name was. He grimaced, and deleted the relevant files from his memory banks. No longer would the hero's hackneyed catchphrase trouble him: "Look out, evil! Man-Power_ is_ the power!"

The rest of the evening was a blur to him: the shattered door, the man cradling his bloody, broken arm, the screaming from his wife, glass shattering, wood splintering. He'd locked the survivors in the upstairs bathroom. He could still remember the tears on his grandchildren's faces as he'd shut the door, their crying rising steadily as he'd left. He heard pounding on the walls as he spilled kerosene around the trashed living room and kitchen, screaming as he lit the single match that had finished the job. It sickened him. They were the same, the same as they'd been in every other city and town he'd been to. Yes, they all had different faces, ages and statures. Some of them were men, some women. Some were old, some young, some black and some white, some rich and some poor. It made no difference. They all failed to put up a fight, they all begged for mercy. And they all wept.

Garbage, he thought. The human race was nothing but living garbage.

That was why he was "happy" to finally be taking his leave of this putrefied rock. Seven months ago, during his fruitless search for the one scientist intelligent enough to construct a portal to send him back to his home dimension, he'd been offered a job by an intelligence far greater (and yet far lesser) than the rabble in which he walked daily. It was by no means an ideal setup, but the reward he'd been unable to resist, the chance to figure out the secret of the treasure he carried with him, and the tantalizing opportunity to destroy his greatest foe, the bloated bag of poisoned ichor that had dared to challenge him and deny the superiority of his robotic form.

Subconsciously, a black-gloved hand went to his breast pocket. Within it he carried a relic of the ages, the magic gauntlet known as Malachite's Hand. It was the key to his kind's victory over the rebellion, and with its power their domination over the planet would be complete. He couldn't decipher it; he'd been all over the United States in an attempt to find someone who could. None of them had succeeded. But now, after one final stop, he would be on his way to complete his assigned task and unlock the gauntlet's power. Victory, at long last, was within his metallic grasp.

He walked down the street slowly, dropping the box of matches in the bushes and brushing ashes from his brown coat. The fire rose steadily in the evening wind.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Apologies if the second half was a little too dark. I honestly think it fits him pretty well.

On a less disturbing note, I consider Paw to be the deuteragonist of the story. The entire research committee plays a pivotal role in helping The Critic and the rest of the team in space, like with CR and Joe building the warp drive and Paw providing tactical assistance, but Paw's discovery of the signal is what kicks off the entire plot. I consider Paw's motivation to be the pursuit of knowledge; he wants to solve the puzzle, and the anomaly in space is the biggest puzzle of them all.

Chapter Five is coming on Monday. Happy end of the world, everybody.

-Xoanon


	6. Part 1, Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Enemy Mine?**

_Revenge is always the weak pleasure of a little and narrow mind._

—Juvenal, _Satires __XIII_

* * *

The Critic peeked out from the front doorway. He hadn't heard from the jerks in blue for the past half hour, and he hoped that after taking their third coffee break they had finally left. He looked to the right, then the left, then the right again. The front lawn was deserted, save for a few white cups and the orange reflective markers they'd staked into the ground. There was no one in either direction. They were gone. He ducked back inside.

Today was the beginning of his court-mandated sentence of three months house arrest for $2,500 in unpaid parking tickets. The cops, along with one of the department's technicians, had shown up at 10:30 with the markers and an infuriatingly tight-banded electronic monitor (a "tether", they'd called it) that was now locked around his ankle. He hitched up the leg of his jeans. The little black box was there, a cold metallic slab of crap cuddled up to his sock that gave his exact location to the police at random intervals. The technician had told him it was tamper-proof, and that if he went more than a foot beyond the markers he'd be sorry. There was a note of satisfaction in his voice when he'd said this. Asshole.

The Critic dropped his pant leg, letting the hateful box disappear from view. He didn't care what that smarmy bastard said. He was going to make a break for it anyway.

He tiptoed back to the open door, where an orange marker had been carelessly shoved into the dirt next to the concrete walkway just beyond the front stoop. Taking a deep breath, he swiftly moved across the threshold, stopping at the edge of the stoop. He lifted his left leg and leaned forward. The leg landed on concrete walkway. Nothing happened. He took another step, and his right leg joined its twin. He was now standing on the first square of the walkway. Still, nothing happened.

The Critic scoffed. The Naperville PD assumed a simple anklet could contain him? Preposterous.

He lifted his left leg again, passing the marker. Ten thousand volts of electricity coursed through his entire body. In incredible pain, he stumbled back into the house, slamming the door behind him. His first escape attempt had ended in failure.

"STUPID ANKLET!" he shouted, putting a still-convulsing hand to his forehead. How was he supposed to get out of here now? He wouldn't survive being shocked continually by the damned thing; he'd never make it past the driveway. Then again, if he could somehow build up a resistance to being electrocuted, then maybe he would at least be able to get to the—

The Critic's phone suddenly rang. Shaken from his thoughts, he fumbled for and answered it. "Hello?"

_"Greetings, you pathetic pile of man-animal…"_

"Mom?"

_"Yes, Critic," _the voice on the other end hissed. "_Despite your wanton massacring of my home planet's population, I am still very much alive. And I have come here to deliver my deceased kin's vengeance to you personally…" _

"Mom, are you okay?" The Critic asked. "Did the nurse cut your Valium?"

_"Oh you may have evaded intergalactic law, rat brain, but you've not evaded me. For you see, I am a hunter. I've hunted you. And now, finally, I have you cornered like a rat-brained rat in a trap, ready to deliver the killing blow…"_

The Critic sighed. "Mom, have you been drinking again?"

_"This isn't your mother, you idiot! It's Terl!"_

"Who?"

_"Terl, from Psychlo! You did a review of my movie! You blew up my planet! You practically destroyed my entire species!" _

"…Who?"

_"Terl, your arch-nemesis! T-U-double R-E-double L. Know what that spells?"_

"Tigger?"

_"TERL!"_

"Wait a minute," The Critic said, finally putting two and two together. "You're the dick that got me sentenced to house arrest! I have to wear this stupid-ass anklet because of you!"

_"It's the least you deserve, rat brain!" _Terl snarled back. _"Your heinous crimes of militancy, theft and douchebaggery have finally caught up with you!" _

"What are you talking about? They got me on unpaid parking tickets."

_"Unpaid parking ti—? OH SON OF A BITCH!" _

"Where are you calling from, anyway?" The Critic asked.

_"My ship of course," _Terl replied. _"Not quite as cozy as your home, but it will suffice until I see you in your day in court." _

"What day in court? I've already been sentenced!"

_"Not yet you haven't, pig dick! Perhaps you've heard of the SUCKA bill? It's a new attempt by your pitiful lawmakers to reign in the power of the internet critics! They've already assured me that once your human Kon-Gres votes on it, you shall finally be tried for your many, many atrocities!" _

"And when will that be?"

_"I dunno. Ten months? A year, maybe? They told me it's been sent back to committee for rewriting… but I swear that when it passes you shall finally be punished!"_

"Why so long?"

_"Apparently they don't think internet critics are very important." _

"Or maybe they think you aren't very important," The Critic muttered. "Did they even believe you were an alien? You look like Coolio trick-or-treating as Jack Sparrow!"

_"Surprisingly, no. No one said anything," _Terl said. _"More to the point, this is the end for you, Critic! I will make you pay for destroying my life! Consider this my vow—" _

The Critic didn't hear much of this damning speech, as he was suddenly distracted by a noise coming from the other end of his house; a thumping sound, like a box being dropped on the floor. Still holding the phone, he began to walk toward the source of the noise. Terl continued talking all the while:

_"—your final hour! On my honor, I will not rest until your body is in ashes, and everything you love is rent into tiny pieces and blasted into oblivion! Oh, there's no place high or low. I've marked every byway and every path you know! I will climb every mountain! Ford every stream! Follow every rainbow!" _

"Hey, listen, can you do anything to me legally?" The Critic asked.

_"No."_

The Critic hung up, and slowly inched closer to where he'd heard the sound. It had come from the living room. The shaft of the stairwell leading down to it was dim, the only source of light emanating from some Christmas lights strewn poorly over the wall. The Critic put his phone back in his pocket and crept downstairs.

It was dead silent in the living room. All the windows were shuttered, all the lights were off. The Critic stepped off the stairs and, for a moment, stood there looking around. There wasn't a thing out of the ordinary; no windows were broken, nothing was out of place or misplaced. It appeared that the mysterious noise he'd heard had been just that. He turned around to head back upstairs and plot out his next dozen escape attempts.

Then—

_Critic…_

The Critic stopped dead halfway up the steps. Something had just whispered in his ear. It was a voice he knew well, a voice he'd heard in his dreams.

He turned around.

"…Ma-Ti?"

The room didn't answer. He looked into it again. The desktop computer in the corner was on (hadn't he turned it off earlier when the cops had arrived?), and there was something sitting in the swivel chair in front of it. Something alive.

Terrified, The Critic slowly began to creep across the room toward the thing in the chair. He heard another strange noise—a gulping sound, like something gasping for breath. The thing moved slightly, and he leapt back from it in anticipation of the inevitable jump scare. Nothing happened. The thing resettled, and he started to creep toward it again.

The thing in the chair was human, or at the very least humanoid. That did nothing to allay The Critic's fears. On the computer screen was a test pattern with the message [PLEASE STAND BY] written underneath it. Whatever or whoever was in the chair was watching it intently, arms grasping the sides of the chair and holding onto it for dear life. Finally, in one swift motion, The Critic stretched out his arm and turned the chair toward him. The creature in it had eyes that were bloodshot and glassy. Its clothes were dusty and worn, its black hair greasy and bedraggled, its face sallow and sunken.

It was Spoony.

The Critic grabbed his friend and hoisted him out of the chair. Noah "Spoony" Antwiler, mouth open and working soundlessly, flopped toward him like a ragdoll, staring at him with two unblinking fish eyes. He stood like a pane of glass in The Critic's arms. He was still breathing, but it was a shallow, ragged breath. He didn't respond in any manner to being lifted. It was as if his brain had been wiped utterly clean.

"Spoony? What are you, doing here?" The Critic asked. "Have you lost your mind?"

_H… h… _

"Spoony, answer me! What's going on?"

_Help me, Critic, _Spoony said at last. It was not his voice. It was higher pitched, more nasally. He had no idea of what he was saying. He had no idea of anything. _Take me home…_

"Spoony," The Critic said. "Spoony, we are home. My home. Get out."

_Then there's still time. _Spoony's wide eyes somehow bulged even wider._ Search for me, Critic. Search for my body. Find… the Hole._

"…Okay, there is no way in hell that I am reaching for your hole," The Critic replied.

_The Hole, Critic… It's coming…_

"Please refrain from talking about your coming hole."

Spoony reached for The Critic, slapping a hand to his face. The hand was clammy and cold. At least it wasn't sweaty.

_Remember, _he said. _Remember. _

His hand slid down the side of The Critic's face. The Critic brushed it away. Whatever was wrong with Spoony, he reasoned, it probably had something to do with his new meds, the ones he'd been put on after the invasion of Molossia. At least some good was coming from this unwelcome home invasion, The Critic thought. Above everything else he'd done during the war, forcing Spoony to release his inner Dr. Insano was the one thing he regretted the most. At least now he'd been given an opportunity to turn one of his many wrongs into a right.

"Spoony, listen to me," The Critic said, shaking his friend back and forth. "Did you miss a dosage of your pills? Should I call your doctor?"

Spoony's head lolled to one side. Presumably that meant yes.

"Yeah, you definitely need a doctor. Don't worry, pal, I'll take good care of you."

At that exact moment Spoony passed out. He fell into The Critic, taking him to the floor with a yelp. The Critic lay immobile on the floor, his back impacted by the leg of the swivel chair, and Spoony draped over him like a lead blanket. By chance, his hand had managed to make its way onto The Critic's face again.

"Great. Now I need a doctor," The Critic mumbled.

* * *

"I just don't know, Paw," Linkara said while perusing the issue of _Neutro _he'd lifted from his archive in the hall closet. "You're saying you want me to lend you my spaceship so you and your friends can go investigate some deets in space?"

"It's not just deets in space, Lewis,"Paw replied frantically. "The government's trying to cover it up! It's a conspiracy!"There were thuds in the background of the call. He was pacing, like he usually did when he was nervous. Linkara rolled his eyes. "We need to get to the bottom of this so we can sweep aside the bane of ignorance and better know the truth about our galactic neighborhood! The truth is out there!"

"Have you tried anyone else?" Linkara asked tiredly.

"I tried NASA first. They treated me like I was crazy,"Paw replied.

"What'd you tell them?"

"That I was an internet reviewer amateur astronomer who needed a spaceship to study an unverified signal coming from the moons of Jupiter."

Linkara shrugged. "Sounds sane to me."

"It's for the best, anyway. They said they were devoting all their resources to finishing a new Mars project—something called Curiosity."

"Did they say what it was about?"

"No. It sounds cool, though, from what I've heard."Paw finally sat down, a chair cutting into the call with a squeak. "So can I borrow your ship?"

"Nope," Linkara replied, turning a page in his comic.

"Oh come on, you're the only guy I know who has his own spaceship!" Paw complained. "Where'd you even get it, anyway?"

"It's explained in my videos… you have watched my videos, right Paw?"

"Oh yeah… 'course I have…" Paw said, after an unconfident-sounding pause.

"Then tell me, who's Mechakara?"

"Jambi's magic words."

"He's my psychotic robotic doppelganger. How does my theme song go?"

"Um… _I met you on a Thursday_…"

_"What do I review, Paw?" _

"…Lamps?"

"Goodbye, Paw." Linkara ended the call, brusquely shutting his phone. The nerve of some people! Here he was, trying to enjoy an enjoyably bad comic all by his lonesome, only to have Paw bust in asking to borrow _his_ spaceship and if he'd purchased any rutabagas lately! Hadn't he ever heard of privacy? Sometimes he wondered why he even put up with those idiots on the site at all. They were so infuriatingly… infuriating.

But there was no time to dwell on such thoughts. He was getting worked up over nothing. Today was still fresh, unlike Paw's brain, and there was still plenty of "him" time to look forward to. Pollo was on the charger in his "reviewing room", sifting through data files to augment his programming with, Nimue was on a date, and 90s Kid, Ninja Style Dancer and Harvey had gone out to the movies. He was all by his lonesome today. For some reason, he sort of liked it like that. "Lamps," he chuckled. What a stupid guess. He would have at least humored tables.

Unfortunately, the interruption by Paw had been enough to ruin the idiotic magic that was _Neutro_. Discarding the comic, Linkara sat up on the couch, grabbed the TV remote and pressed the power button. The TV sprang to life. There was a news report on:

_*—devastating loss of one of the comic industry's most beloved creators, Lionel Larson, who died under shocking circumstances Sunday in his Woodbury home. Police are still combing the area for any signs of the arsonist who set fire to the estate—*_

A newswoman was on the screen, delivering her report in front of what looked like a firebombed cardboard box. Several police and fire department officers were combing through the ruins behind her. Some medical personnel were removing stretchers from the house, stretchers with body bags on them. The report continued:

_*—release of his newest work, 'Man-Power', which was originally set to be published this June under IDW's Dynamics imprint. The publication has been cancelled out of respect for the deceased author. IDW CEO Ted Adams gave his condolences—*_

"Aww. That's a shame," Linkara said to himself. "I actually wanted to start reading that one. Its premise sounded awfully hilarious... or maybe just awful." He chuckled again.

_*—fire was started in the afternoon between four and five PM. Several eyewitnesses reported a man in a brown coat leaving the scene a few minutes after the fire started. Other than this lead, police are baffled, though there is speculation by many that this crime is connected to the recent nationwide rash of comic book-related homicides, beginning with the murder of artist Lawrence Laremont earlier this year. So far, the spree has consisted of several semi-prominent artisans, writers and editors, all with ties to the comic book industry—*_

Linkara yawned, turning off the TV. "Well, glad that doesn't affect me any. Good to know I've managed to keep the weirdoes from piling up on my doorstep."

There was a knock at the door. A loud knock.

"Coming!" Dropping the remote, Linkara got up and sped to the door. "Who is it?" he asked.

**[****Special delivery.****]** The voice that answered was… off. It was human, but it had a strange lilt to it, something that made it sound like it was coming from the inside of a hollow metal tube. It was more than enough to set Linkara on edge. "Weird. I didn't order anything," he said.

**[****Candygram.****]**

"Ah, that's better! Must be from another admiring fan. Well, buck up old chum." Linkara unlocked the door, pausing briefly to straighten out his hair and shirt. It always paid to look ones best in the presence of the simpering peons who watched his reviews.

He opened the door. A small sign over the peephole, RENT DUE – MANAGEMENT, caught his eye before anything else. He ripped it off and turned to greet his worshipper.

**[****Hello, Linkara.****] **

"Yes, I'm—"

Linkara froze solid. The person standing in front of him was him, but not really. There were several glaring differences. For one thing, Linkara thought, he didn't have glowing red eyes, and he didn't wear black leather gloves when it wasn't cold outside. He also didn't have a rather evil looking smile plastered over his face. He gulped. Either this guy was a really good cosplayer, or today's "him" time was about to be permanently interrupted.

"—gonna go get him!" He slammed the door shut, locked it, and ran in the opposite direction as fast he could. It didn't matter. Within seconds his duplicate had managed to punch clean through the wood to grasp the doorknob.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I assume that Terl tipped off the Naperville police about The Critic's many atrocities before taking him to court. The only thing they could nab him on was the parking violations, though, a few outstanding warrants for disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct and attempted arson notwithstanding. The "Spoony as Insano" thing I will address later when it comes up in the story.

Everybody have a happy and safe Christmas, or Hanukkah, or Festivus, or Solstice, or secular holiday, or whatever.

-Xoanon


	7. Part 1, Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Mission [A New World]**

_We have to put a stop to the idea that it is a part of everybody's civil rights to say whatever he pleases._

—Adolf Hitler

* * *

Dr. Block and Dr. Tease, two of the finest pseudo-scientists the world had ever known, studied Spoony carefully. They ogled, poked and prodded every inch of him with calipers, pens, rulers, and other assorted instruments, taking down extensive notes on their findings. The two were cohorts of The Nostalgia Chick, whom The Critic had called earlier for help. She'd sent the two straight to him from a convention down in Peoria. As he watched them try to stuff a large yellow ruler into Spoony's pants, he wondered whether she'd done him this favor to get revenge on him for making her review _Bratz._

"Dilation is 7.67 millimeters," Dr. Tease reported, shining a far-too-large flashlight into Spoony's left eye.

"Interesting…" Dr. Block said. She wrote down the measurement in her notebook. "What's his temperature reading?"

Dr. Tease pulled a meat thermometer from Spoony's ear. "98.6."

The two continued on, recording and rerecording either useless or highly personal data. The Critic watched them from a safe distance at the other end of the room. He was on the phone with Bennett the Sage, who was also in town.

"They're working on him now," he said, watching as the two doctors drew a mustache on Spoony's face for no reason.

"Do they know what's wrong yet?" Sage asked.

"Nope. I don't either." The Critic rubbed his forehead resignedly. "It was weird. He just broke into my house and started talking about a 'hole', and then he said he needed me to 'take him home'."

Sage sighed."Sounds like he ran out of pills again."

"That's what I thought." There was a beeping sound. The Critic looked at his phone. "I've got another call, Sage. I'll talk to you later."

"Adios."

The Critic switched to the other line. A series of loud noises blasted out through the speakers. One of those loud noises was Linkara's panicked voice.

"Critic! Critic, for the love of Eisner, are you there?!"

"Linkara?"

"Critic, help! He's gonna kill me!" There were several laser blasts, and a crunch, followed by another voice: **[Don't listen to him. Everything's fine. Just hang up.]**

"Everything is not fine, Critic! It's Mechakara—"

**[Hold still, you little—]**

"Call the police! The National Guard! The Justice League! Anybody!" Just then, The Critic noticed that the two doctors were finishing up with their work, and were now strutting toward him to deliver their diagnosis.

"Look, Linkara, I'm a little busy right now. I'll call you back later."

_"CRITIC, NOOOOO—"_

The Critic hung up. "What's the skinny?" he asked Dr. Tease.

"Well, based on outward appearance, Spoony seems to be completely normal…"

"Yes, 'normal'," Dr. Block scoffed, adding air quotations. "Aside from his vampiric appearance and distinct lack of hygiene prowess, he's totally fine."

"As is his sex function," Dr. Tease added. "His penis, in normal terms."

"Penis?" The Critic repeated.

"But we all knew about that from the beginning," Dr. Block said.

"We did?"

"Of course."

"The problem with Spoony appears to _be inside of his head,_" Dr. Tease whispered.

"Which head?" The Critic asked.

"His brain."

"_Not_ his penis," Dr. Block clarified surreptitiously.

"Penis?"

"No, but thanks for offering," Dr. Tease refused.

"We have to examine Spoony's head to discern further treatment," Dr. Block said.

"His brain?"

"No, his penis," Dr. Tease corrected. "But we'll examine his brain too. Make a note of that, Doctor."

Dr. Block made a note in her notebook of this: Examine not-penis. "All the same, I predict that we will find Spoony is suffering from an acute case of CCFCP," she predicted.

"Which is?"

"Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs," Dr. Tease explained.

"It's a technical term. You can find it in the DSM-IV right next to 'Fruity as a Nut Cake'," Dr. Block continued.

"Also, when abbreviated, it has the exact number of letters as the word 'penis', coincidentally enough," Dr. Tease said.

"Penis?"

"Later." Drs. Block and Tease moved to hoist Spoony out of his chair. They seemed more than happy to bear his weight as they moved toward the front door and the car waiting out in the driveway. "Don't you worry, Mr. Critic," Dr. Block said, tightening her death grip on Spoony's arm as it attempted to convulse away from her. "We'll be sure to take good care of Spoony, especially his head."

"You mean penis," The Critic guessed. He was slapped in the face by Dr. Tease.

"Pervert!" Dr. Block cried. "We meant his head!"

"And also his penis," Dr. Tease added. The two left, leaving The Critic bewildered and alone once more under house arrest.

"Why do I talk to people?" he asked the empty room. The room didn't answer.

* * *

After several fruitless attempts to re-phone The Critic, Terl had given up and resorted to sulking in the captain's chair on the bridge of the ship. He'd been doing this for at least an hour when an ensign approached him with important news.

_"What is it, whelp?" _Terl spat.

"Direct call, sir," the ensign reported nervously. "It's from… you know who."

_"I know whom?"_

"Yes… him."

Terl's eyes widened. A tiny spike of fear shot through him like a diamond-tipped quasar-bullet. That wasn't good. His dark master—the one who had plucked him from the depths of Psychlo's shattered corpse and made him a general in an army which spanned the stars—was calling for a status report on the mission, the mission that was so far from complete it wasn't even close to being funny. How could it be that time of the week already? He had been so certain that his overlord's trip to Antares would cause him to forget this time…

He snapped out of these ruminations long enough to give an order: _"Very good, ensign," _he said, no trace of the fear in his voice. _"Send it to my office and I shall take it there."_

"Yes sir!" The ensign scuttled off to upload the message to the ship's holo-reciever systems. Terl rose from his chair and stalked off the bridge. He would have to hurry. There was one maxim that was always taken for certain in the Regency fleets: it didn't pay to keep The Executor waiting.

* * *

The metal floor of Terl's office clanked as his pluvian-leather boots treaded across it. He approached the holo-reciever swiftly and knelt in front of it in a gesture of supplication. A white ring of light sprang up around him, indicating that the answering system was being activated. The holo-reciever crackled to life, and Terl, completely calm, raised his head to gaze into the abyss. The thin projectors displayed a murky blue image of a towering man in a black cloak. This man was The Executor, ruler of two-fifths of the known Milky Way and supreme cosmological sovereign of the Orion Arm.

_"What is thy bidding, Executor?"_ Terl asked with a grandiose sweep of his arm.

_[My apprentice,] _The Executor said. _[There is a great disturbance in… the Hole.]_

_"…Have you tried Preparation H?"_

_[Not that hole. It.]_

_"Oh! That…" _Terl pondered.

_[Yes. Its power is growing. The earthlings will soon take notice of it.]_

_"What is our objective, then?"_

_[I sense a great disturbance in the critics, in the One called 'Spoony',] _The Executor intoned. _[The Hole's reach has stretched to Earth, and its presence is strong in him. We must not allow his allies to unlock its secrets, or all will be lost.]_

_"He is… just a critic, my lord," _Terl said._ "They are nothing compared to us."_

_[They may seem disorganized, disarrayed. But they are not weak,] _The Executor replied. _[In our line of work, critics are a dangerous thing. One voice of dissent, one link in the chain broken, and an entire empire can come crumbling down. Do you wish for us to lose our newfound glory, my apprentice? Do you wish to lose all that we have built, all we have sacrificed for?]_

_"No, my lord!" _Terl said.

_[Then you know what must be done.]_

_"If… he could be turned…"_

_[He would be a valuable ally.]_

_"Yes, of course!" _Terl sneered. _"With his power, and The Critic kept under house arrest, there would be no one to stop us! Earth could be converted to our needs…"_

_[So be it. Everything must go according to plan. We must have The Spoony One.]_

_"Shall I send for him?"_

_[No. It is too risky. The Hole must remain anonymous for the time being. But soon, we shall make our move, and establish a new order on that insignificant blue-green sphere. Without the critics to stop us there will be no rebellion, the internet will be ours, and the last bastion of free thought in the galaxy will fall. And then we shall have… peace.]_

Terl laughed. _"Soon the critics will be crushed and The Spoony One will be one of us!"_

_[Wait, that's my line.]_

_"What?"_

_[You totally stepped on my line. We're doing _'Jedi'_ now, right? That's one of The Emperor's lines. You totally stepped over it.]_

_"Oh, sorry, I thought you were doing '_Sith'."

_[No, we're doing both. You're doing Vader, I'm doing Palpatine. It's kind of a catch-all for the movies, the whole 'dark master and dark apprentice' vibe.]_

_"Oh I get it, I get it... So we should just start over or—?"_

_[No, no. I think that ship has sailed. We've got the gist of it.]_

_"Oh… okay, cool."_

There was a long, awkward silence after that.

_"So… how was Antares?"_

_[Pretty cool. The planetary governor showed us his pad. Sweet console setup.]_

_"Really? I heard Antareans weren't that into gaming."_

_[You've heard wrong. It was totally kickass.]_

_"So do you want me to find The Spoony One or not?"_

_[Find him. Keep him under watch at our facility.]_

_"The new one?"_

_[Yes.]_

_"On Europa?"_

_[That's where the newest facility is, isn't it?]_

_"No need to get snippy. I was just asking."_

_[Sorry. I've got a bastardly case of warp lag chewing at my head.]_

_"It's cool."_

There was a buzz.

_"Shit, I've got call waiting. Are we done?"_

_[Yeah. We're pretty much finished here. Remember, the Hole must remain a secret.]_

_"I got it. Take care of yourself, big guy."_

_[See you later.]_

_"Ciao." _The Executor disappeared in a haze of static. His image was replaced by an image of a flustered, mustachioed man in a black suit seated at a desk, fumbling with a computer keyboard which had somehow snaked itself around his torso.

_[Damned impossible thing!]_ he grumbled, removing it and throwing it out of view. _[When will Silicon Valley build a keyboard for the computer novice?]_

_"Uh, hello?" _Terl asked, tapping his wrist controller. _"Who's calling?"_

The man turned to face what was presumably a webcam. _[Ah! Finally! I've been waiting for Walter to patch the call through all day. Good afternoon, sir.]_

_"Good… afternoon," _Terl replied gingerly.

_[Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Prick. Lame R. Prick.]_

_"That's unfortunate."_

_[I hate to simply jump to business like this, but I'm calling because I saw your egregious mistrial this morning on CNN, and I couldn't help but notice that you were having a problem with critics.]_

Terl's ears perked up. _"Yes. And?"_

_[Allow me to explain. I am a member of the US House of Representatives, and am currently drafting a policy that would stop internet critics from threatening the interests of businesses worldwide, the SUCKA bill. Perhaps you've heard of it?]_

_"I have. It doesn't go nearly far enough!"_

_[It will. The policy I'm currently drafting will have an effect on the internet so large and far-reaching that any potential critic will think twice before stealing material for his so-called 'review'. Such legislation would be invaluable to your master, would it not?]_

_"Wait, how do you know about—?"_

_[I have my sources. It's rather difficult to keep secrets on Capitol Hill for very long. As for your dilemma involving the "Nostalgia Critic"…]_

Prick smirked. _[...I think we can come to an arrangement that has both our interests in mind.]_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** The Executor foresaw this...

Happy Boxing Day.

-Xoanon


	8. Part 1, Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: The Coming of the Hole**

_The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown._

—H.P. Lovecraft

* * *

_There was darkness._

_There was no form, color or substance, only darkness. It was darkness within and darkness without, darkness eternal, darkness abundant. It was the greatest thing, stretching for an infinite number of leagues in every direction. But it wasn't the only thing._

_There was also the Hole._

_It came before him—shuddering, breathing, totally alive. It was a brilliant glow in the darkness, its tentacles whirling and slashing at the black, the light that rippled outward from it warm, inviting. The colors played upon its surface, tickled him, delighted him, entranced him with their whimsical swaying. It was talking to him, asking him to come nearer. It wanted him to come nearer._

_He hesitated._

_He took a step forward._

_The Hole remained._

_He took another step._

_And another._

_Another._

_Suddenly, the Hole began to dim. The darkness was writhing. It was crawling back over the Hole, blocking it from view. He started to run toward it. The run became a sprint. With every leap he took it got further and further away, until the darkness shrouded back over it again. The darkness began to consume him too. He started to scream. He couldn't hear himself screaming._

_There was fire. There was smoke. There was a hissing sound mixed with a symphony of far away, echoing screams. A great grey thing rose over him, and a cyclopean red light from it shined out over oblivion. There came a voice pounding in his ears from the depths of reality itself:_

**_It's calling you._**

_And then there was nothing._

* * *

The Critic's eyes snapped open. He sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily, looking all around the room. The crawling darkness was gone, banished by the light of the lamp at his bedside (hadn't he turned it off before going to sleep?). What replaced it was the sight of the bookshelf at the foot of his bed, TV and cable box atop it, and the numerous VHS tapes and DVDs of his odious movie collection lining its shelves. It had been just another dream.

He sighed, flopping back down onto the sheets. It had been like this every night since Spoony's arrival: a new set of insane dreams, dreams far different than the ones he'd had before, dreams about the Hole. They had no pattern, never beginning or ending the same way twice. Sometimes they ended just as he got to the Hole's surface. Sometimes they ended before they began. Sometimes they ended with the Hole growing larger and larger, until it swallowed him entirely, blinding him with its radiance. But no matter what form the dreams took they all had the same components. The blackness, the Hole, the grey thing with its red eye, and the voice with its booming message:

It's calling you.

"Who?" The Critic asked, looking up at the ceiling. "Who's calling me? _What's_ calling me?" The ceiling gave him no answer. Somehow he knew nothing could. He sighed, and rolled over on to his side, hoping that he could get back to sleep within the next hour.

A large, bearded gentleman in glasses and a brown robe was lying next to him.

"I think you know," he said. The last part of this message was drowned out by The Critic's girlish screaming. He leapt out of the bed immediately and scurried into the corner. The man got up as well, and stood on the opposite side.

"Stay calm, Critic. I mean you no harm," the stranger continued.

"Wait a minute… Last Angry Geek?" The Critic said, recognizing the intruder. "What're you doing here? How'd you get inside my house? And what the fuck do you mean 'I mean you no harm'? You tried to kill me and my friends last year! You were Cloak Number One!"

"It's about your friend Ma-Ti, your front door was unlocked, and yes, I would've gotten away with it too if it weren't for you meddling kids," Last Angry Geek replied coolly.

"Well, why are you here to talk now?" The Critic asked.

"All in good time, Critic, but first there is urgent business I must take care of..."

* * *

The toilet flushed. Outside the bathroom The Critic stood, folding his arms crossly.

"Gee, I wonder who could've possibly seen this coming?" he snarked. Shortly afterward, the door opened and Last Angry Geek stepped from the bathroom, fresh as a spring daisy.

"I apologize for any horrors you may face in there later, Critic," he said, flapping his robes liberally. "Taco Bell is a harsh mistress."

The Critic grimaced. "Thank you for the lovely gift. Can you go now?"

"I'm afraid not," Last Angry Geek replied sternly. "There is something important we must discuss, the odious decision you made one year ago."

"Ma-Ti? What do you have to say about him?"

"One thing, and one thing only: Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you put Ma-Ti into that oatmeal can, Critic?" Last Angry Geek asked. "Why did you shoot the oatmeal can into the depths of space? How did you even manage to accomplish that feat?"

"Well… we all thought he was dead," The Critic replied slowly. "Hell, I _knew_ he was because I watched him die! And after he died we cremated him. That usually does the trick, so what does it matter now if he's in space, alive or dead?"

"Ma-Ti didn't die, Critic," Last Angry Geek said. "Only his body was destroyed. His character survived."

"His what?"

"His character; that part of him that lives on in his role, his essence, the total sum of his being. Every last bit of Ma-Ti is held within that character, all his thoughts, feelings, mannerisms, tics, likes, dislikes, and sexual fetishes. It is the most intrinsic part of him—it _is_ him, in a way."

"So it's like a soul?" The Critic said.

"Oh no, that's total bullshit," Last Angry Geek replied, waving a hand. "But a _character_, Critic, that's real. Every great fictitious person throughout all of history, no matter what his form, has had a character: Darren from _Bewitched_, Becky from _Rosanne_, The Doctor, James Bond, Clarice, Dumbledore, The Phantom. Different bodies, different people. But the character, or at least part of it, survives within all of them, as Ma-Ti survives… in you."

Last Angry Geek pointed a chubby finger at The Critic. The Critic looked at it, then looked back up at him.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he said.

"I see you are lost. Share your thoughts with me, Critic," Last Angry Geek asked. "We shall have a nerd meld, our minds joined as one. Only then will you truly understand."

"You… really want to go inside my mind?" The Critic said, tapping the side of his highly perforated skull. He wasn't really open to the idea. Anyone attempting to probe the inside of that hornet's nest would probably be scarred for life, or worse.

"Yes." Last Angry Geek seemed adamant. The Critic thought for a moment.

"Do I have to—?"

"Yes."

"Okay," The Critic sighed, motioning for Last Angry Geek to begin his whatever-meld. Last Angry Geek's hand floated slowly toward his brow. He was almost able to touch it when The Critic grabbed his cloaked arm.

"Just one thing," he said, "if you see any naked pictures of Orlando Bloom in there... just keep in mind I thought he was a girl."

Last Angry Geek laughed. "We all did, Critic. We all did..."

"Sure, sure." The Critic released Last Angry Geek's hand, and he lowered it to The Critic's forehead. Instantaneously, a stream of memories, thoughts, and images traded places in the minds of the two men. The Geek, with his superior training in the art of mental transfiguring, quickly sifted through the mind-melting sea of bad movies for his quarry while The Critic was drowned in panel after panel of terrible comic books, insultingly insipid tie-ins and one shots, and naked Catwomen.

One particular image piqued Last Angry Geek's interest. It was of The Critic, dressed as Link from _The Legend of Zelda_, lying on a field of green with Ma-Ti cradled in his arms. Ma-Ti was dying. He studied the scene carefully, remembering the words spoken there even though he had not been there to hear them, things felt and unfelt, seen and unseen.

"He spoke of your friendship…" Last Angry Geek said slowly. "The needs of the many… outweigh…"

"The needs of the few," The Critic finished. "Or the one."

"I was about to say that."

"Sorry."

The nerd meld continued, with Last Angry Geek perusing all of The Critic's Ma-Ti-related thoughts in search of the missing Indian. The Critic, meanwhile, filed away as many of the Catwoman pictures as he could before the Geek, sensing that he'd grokked all there was to grok from The Critic's experiences, released his hold, and the meld ceased.

"There's nothing in there," he announced.

"Oh come on, that's a little harsh."

"No, I mean there's nothing of Ma-Ti in there, no essence of his character." Last Angry Geek shrugged. "I apologize, Critic, I did not know. He never melded with you."

"S'okay." The Critic tapped his head again. "At least I got something out of it."

"I hope you enjoy those. They served me faithfully in college."

"I must say, your mind's eye is impeccable."

"As is yours." Last Angry Geek turned to leave. "I must leave now, Critic. There are matters elsewhere that I must attend to. I apologize for interrupting your slumber." With that, he turned to leave. The Critic followed, grabbing him by the arm again.

"Wait," he said. "Before you go, I need to ask something. If Ma-Ti's not in my head, then where is he? What's holding his character?"

"Nothing, Critic," Last Angry Geek replied. "The character may only receive another vessel through melding, or if executives want to bring him back for the sequel. Aside from those circumstances, nothing else may transfer a character from one being to another. And thus—"

He sighed. "Everything Ma-Ti is, was or ever would be, is lost."

He turned and slowly walked away, leaving The Critic alone once more. The Critic thought about everything Last Angry Geek had just told him. If Ma-Ti was a character, than that meant he was still alive, sort of, and because he had no other person to transfer himself too, then he was doomed to float in space for all eternity in a can of Quaker Oats. His heart sank. So everything really was his fault, then. Ma-Ti was gone, and he was here all alone, left to deal with his house arrest, the Hole, and Spoony.

Spoony…

"No, wait!" The Critic started after the departing Geek. "I know where Ma-Ti's character is!"

"In space, is it not?" Last Angry Geek replied dryly.

"No, it's here on Earth! Ma-Ti transferred his character; he just didn't transfer it to me! Come on, I'll show you the proof!"

The Critic started for the stairs. Last Angry Geek, deciding his pressing affairs could wait a few moments more, followed him.

* * *

It moved through space like a shark moving through water. It was the ultimate power in the universe, a veritable cathedral of war bristling with every type of weapon imaginable, and some that hadn't even been imagined yet. The centerpiece of it all was the brobdingnagian conglomeration of technology from seven systems forming the source of its power—Artellan crystals for the power supply, Zydecar steel for the kilometer-long barrel, Tempuri silicon and gold for the targeting computer and electrical components, all of it working in perfect tandem with the engines and star drive bringing it slowly through the heliopause to enter the outskirts of the Solar System.

And, very soon, it would be tested out on its first official target.

* * *

He was at home when the signal arrived. He'd just cracked open a beer. It came as a thin pulse on his phone, a coded eight bit signal of an unknown, untraceable origin, followed by the message. The message was:

_It's time._

He sighed. Shit.

After pausing his game he finished his beer, left the house and trekked out back to the garage standing in the corner of the yard. He pulled the door open and stepped inside. Inside were the usual trappings: a lawnmower, a weed whacker, a leaf blower, assorted paint cans, gardening tools, and a large gestalt thing covered by a white tarp.

He pulled back the tarp. Beneath it was a gunmetal grey spaceship, sleek and powerful, a single continuing whorl of metal with no right angles. It had shown up here last week completely out of the blue. Originally, he'd had no idea where it had come from, or why it was suddenly loitering in his shed, but within a very short span of time it had made its purpose and his mission impeccably clear.

He pulled the ripcord underneath the dorsal landing strut. The cockpit popped open. He climbed in. Inside the machine was a staggering array of controls, all of which he'd managed to learn through a rather invasive mental process. He flipped on the power. The central monitor sprung to life. It contained a message from his benefactor. He read it.

It was the end of the story.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Those who watched the movie closely will notice that I omitted a certain scene for the sake of the narrative. A few scenes next chapter may have to be moved around too. They're minor changes, and aside from a couple of aspects in Part 4 I won't be changing much of anything else.

Besides, I like to keep the reader guessing. It can't all be rehash, can it?

-Xoanon


	9. Part 1, Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Death From Above**

_Does not Dionysius seem to have made it sufficiently clear that there can be nothing happy for the person over whom some fear always looms?_

—Cicero, _Tusculan Disputations__, Book V_

* * *

"To the deets!" Sci-Fi Guy cheered, lifting his cup of sparkling soda high into the air.

"To the deets!" Joe, Paw and CR agreed, lifting their respective beverages as well. The four members of the Space Research Committee had called another cyber-meeting to celebrate. Through a sheer amount of perseverance, Paw had managed to finagle support for their discovery from the European Space Agency. Come June, three members of the team would be heading to Kourou in French Guiana to be launched into space aboard a sleek, sexy Ariane 5.

"I can't believe you got us three seats on board an actual rocket!" Joe exclaimed, stuffing a slice of pepperoni pizza into his mouth as he did so.

"Well, I had to beg. In both French and German," Paw replied, popping open another grape soda. "I was amazed. They're really integrated over there."

"I'm still surprised that they actually listened to us," CR chimed in.

"I was very convincing in German," Paw said. "Besides, whatever NASA loses, the ESU gains. We've already agreed to share half the potential grant money with them, but we still retain the movie rights to the discovery and two-thirds of the revenue from merchandising. It's a win-win no matter what we find."

"So we're getting rich?" Joe asked hopefully.

"Most assuredly so."

"All right! Italian sports car, here I come!"

"Guys," That Sci-Fi Guy said suddenly, putting down his cup. "I have a feeling that this anomaly is going to be the big one, the scientific find that everybody in the world remembers from now on. This could be the greatest discovery of our time. Something this massive and powerful floating right inside our Solar System could change everything we know about the universe, and I'm glad I was able to discover it with a group of good friends like you."

"Hear hear," Paw agreed.

"You don't think this thing has anything to do with Spoony, do you?" CR asked. "The deets from space, I mean. I got this email from The Critic telling me he was acting really weird, talking about a hole…"

"I don't know about that," Paw replied. "But we should probably keep this under wraps for now, just to be safe. Aside from the guys at the ESA, nobody really knows about this yet, and hearing about a strange signal coming from space would probably freak a whole bunch of people out."

"Yeah, crazy people," Joe added.

"Oh come on, nobody's listening in on a bunch of geeks like us!" Sci-Fi Guy said. "And besides, even if they heard about it, they would just think it was a hoax or something."

"All the same, we can't be too careful about our information. We could lose it to a rival astronomers club," CR pointed out.

"Well, I don't expect them to be a threat anytime soon," Sci-Fi Guy boasted. "I've got all the equipment we need to study this thing's emissions on my computer. And if something does get lost or stolen, at least we'll still have everything recorded in my triple-locked, password secure databanks. Rest assured, guys, nobody's getting at my data. May God strike me down if I'm wrong."

And at that exact moment, God struck him down.

* * *

It came like a thunderbolt from the outer reaches of the Solar System. The targeting computers in central control had spent several hours zooming in on the little planet from afar, calibrating and recalibrating the ionic guidance system, fine-tuning the beam's wavelength down to the smallest possible iteration, then charging the central power core to peak firing capacity. When all the proper calculations had been made, central control hunkered down and waited for the order from high command. The order came. Central control fired.

Around six hours later, after crossing over ten astronomical units worth of space, a tight beam of energy rocketed down from the sky and slammed into That Sci-Fi Guy's house. The house exploded, the siding, shingles, and plywood beams it had once consisted of splintering into a million charred pieces on impact. Dr. Wiki's computer domicile was destroyed utterly. Dr. Wiki himself wasn't present, having removed himself to a computer database in The Library of Congress when he'd first detected the projectile entering the atmosphere. Everything else in the house was either vaporized, liquidated, or both.

Including That Sci-Fi Guy.

* * *

"Joe! Joe, what just happened?!"

"I don't know! He just disappeared!

"Sci-Fi Guy, come in Sci-Fi Guy…"

"What the hell was that noise in the background?"

"His computer's not responding. Try getting us a satellite feed."

"Working on it…"

"It's okay, guys. Maybe he just tripped over his power cable."

"Feed's up… Holy shit."

"What?"

"Joe?"

"Dudes, you are not gonna believe this."

"What's wrong?"

"Sci-Fi Guy's house's been wiped out."

"What?!"

"Let me see!"

"Transferring…"

The video feed from the satellite's cameras popped up on Paw's computer. It showed a smoking crater in the ground where Sci-Fi Guy's house used to be. Paw flopped back into his chair, unbelieving. That Sci-Fi Guy couldn't really be dead, could he?

"It came from the same direction that the Jupiter signal did," Joe murmured, holding his head in one hand. "I-I'm sorry Paw. He's dead."

"I guess he was right about people listening in," CR said.

"No… No, this can't be happening…" Paw slowly began to shake his head from side to side. This wasn't happening, he thought. But it was. Sci-Fi Guy was gone. Even worse, all their research had been destroyed. Their chances for knowledge, fame, and sports cars were gone forever along with him. It was too much to take. Paw raised his head to the ceiling and let loose an anguished scream.

"SCI-FI—" He was cut off by the custom ring on his cell phone telling him that his mother was calling. He stopped his raging momentarily and answered it.

"Hey, mom… I've been good… Yes, she's good too… I don't know… I don't know… No, I think it's okay for him to eat it… Listen, mom, I'm kind of in the middle of something. Can I call you back…? It'll just take a minute… I… I know… I know you're not getting any younger… Okay, I promise I'll call you back right after this… I will… I love you too… Kiss kiss…"

He hung up. "GUYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY Y!"

* * *

Ma-Ti strode purposefully across the grassy battlefield. In front of him was a colossal battle, Teams One and Two both clashing mightily against the magical forces that guarded the eternal gauntlet, Malachite's Hand. With the addition of Team Two to the fray, the Awesome-teers were winning, and slowly the dark warlocks and witches were being forced into full retreat. But a far more powerful foe was coming, a foe they could not possibly defeat alone. He continued toward the fray without fear. He knew what was coming, and he knew he had to face it; for them, for all mankind, for the power of heart.

Suddenly, Spoony the Grey stepped in front of him. "Just where do you think you're going, Ma-Ti?" he asked sternly. His garb was stained with the grassy muck of battle, his stained white beard askew, the barrel of the mighty Flame of Arnor smoking in his sweaty hands.

"I'm here to help The Critic!" Ma-Ti replied assuredly. "My ring holds the key to defeating the dark wizard Malachite!"

"No! It's far too dangerous and you are far too underpowered! Flee to the safety of the kitchenette, where we shall meet up with you hereafter!" Spoony turned to face the battle once again, rallying his comrades: "Forward, critics! At this rate we shall win the day!"

Suddenly, Ma-Ti reached out to Spoony, grasping him by the shoulder. Spoony suddenly seized up, his eyes rolling back into his forehead with a strange groan. He dropped to the grass like he'd been kicked in the stomach. Ma-Ti slowly knelt down beside him.

"I'm sorry, Spoony," he said. "I have no time to think this through logically. When the proper moment comes, you will understand."

He put a hand to Spoony's head, the one that held his mystic Planeteer ring. It was a powerful artifact that had served him well over the years. It would serve him one final time before the day was through, in battle with the dark lord of magic himself.

"Remember," he whispered into Spoony's ear. Spoony didn't respond. He didn't need to. All that was necessary for the resurrection was now ensconced inside Spoony's head. Although Ma-Ti would die this day on the field of valor, he knew that he would eventually return.

The Critic stopped the clip.

"I knew it," he said proudly, gesturing to the frozen screenshot of Spoony and Ma-Ti. "It's so obvious now! Spoony has Ma-Ti's character! That's why he's been acting so weird lately!"

"One dead, one flown over the cuckoo's nest, both lost," Last Angry Geek pondered, stroking his beard ponderously. "I do not like this, Critic. I do not like this at all. Something's amiss."

"What? What do you mean something's amiss?" The Critic got up from his chair. "Everything about this mystery's finally starting to add up!"

"But nothing about the explanation makes any logical sense!" Last Angry Geek replied. "Where did you obtain that battle footage? Who filmed it? Why was it so well-edited? When did Ma-Ti find the time during the battle to do any of this with Spoony? There's no continuity here at all!"

The Critic opened his mouth to object, but then he realized that Last Angry Geek was right. None of this had happened on the day of the big battle. He still remembered every second of it clearly: Spoony had been fighting alongside Team Two the entire time; there was no way he could've slipped away from them, even for a second. Ma-Ti had shown up after Malachite had, and he'd never known that his ring was Aeon's long-lost lodestone, or that he was destined to die on that battlefield fighting the warlock. The Geek was right. The explanation of Spoony's predicament made absolutely no sense.

"You're right," The Critic said. "But how'd this get here, then? The video clip?"

"I don't know," Last Angry Geek admitted. "Things are starting to unravel, Critic. I sense a disturbance in… the Plot."

"Okay, if that means what I think it means, you're a pervert who likes a show for little girls."

"Not that type of plot. I mean the literary Plot. Think of it as an invisible hand, writing our every thought and action. It guides us, surrounds us, directs us…"

"And penetrates us?" The Critic finished.

Last Angry Geek smiled. "Now who's being perverted? Essentially, the Plot is that which gives our stories purpose. I've been studying it for some time, in the medium of comics, and in that regard I am a master. Note the master's robe."

"I've been meaning to ask, why are you wearing that?" The Critic questioned. Last Angry Geek ignored him and continued on: "In a perfect world, the Plot should flow, and all the elements within it should have some logical connection to the stories they inhabit. It is the natural order of things, the balancing act that keeps the universe running like a well-oiled machine. But now…"

Last Angry Geek looked over The Critic's shoulder at the offending film. "I must go."

"Again? How many chimichangas did you eat?"

"I mean I must leave," The Geek corrected. "I am sorry, but there are forces at work in the cosmos far beyond that of Ma-Ti's character—forces of sheer malevolence. They must be eliminated before they grow large enough to consume us and all that we hold dear."

He turned and walked away, again. The Critic followed him, again.

"Leave? You can't leave now!" he exclaimed. "We're finally starting to solve the problem!"

"No, Critic." Last Angry Geek turned around, his robe now open to display a rather festive Hawaiian shirt. "This is not the solution, only the beginning. I sense a great evil which surrounds your predicament, one which you cannot possibly face at this point in time. I must confront it. Alone. But if I should fail—and given who I'm dressed up as that seems more than likely—it will fall to you and your friends to defeat it in a suitably heroic fashion. Find Spoony. Listen to everything he has to say. All hope now lies with him."

"But I can't—"

"You can."

"I mean I really can't," The Critic finished. "I have this stupid anklet that won't let me leave the house." He gestured to his left pant leg and the lump underneath it.

"All obstacles can be surmounted, Critic," Last Angry Geek replied. "With time and perseverance, even the lowest man can become the highest hero."

"And what happens if I fail?" The Critic questioned. "Huh? What happens then? What if I mess everything up and the whole world gets screwed because of me? What if Spoony doesn't have the answers? What if Ma-Ti is really gone? What am I going to do then, Geek?"

Last Angry Geek smiled, again. "It's like Ma-Ti once said, Critic: the power is yours."

"But I already told you," The Critic said, looking down at his anklet briefly, "I can't—"

He stopped. Last Angry Geek was gone. It was as if he had been nothing but a portly ghost, or a hallucination. The Critic stood there, unsure of what to do next.

Then, Last Angry Geek peeked out from behind the hallway door.

"Just kidding," he said. "I was here the whole time."

"Oh," The Critic replied. "Funny."

"But seriously, I'm leaving. Just remember, you can do this. Find Spoony. He'll tell you everything you need to know."

There was a clattering of feet and a bang of the back door as The Last Angry Geek left for parts unknown. The Critic turned to the computer monitor. Ma-Ti's face was still there, blown up to a very large proportion. Spoony's face was there too, contorted into a hilarious drunkenness. As this strange scene sunk into his eyeballs, a sense of duty overcame him at last. Last Angry Geek was right, he thought, he could do this. He had to find Spoony and talk to him, so he could solve this mystery and get on with his life. He reached into his pocket for his phone, hoping those two doctors hadn't done any permanent damage to Spoony in the meantime.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I decided to leave this chapter as-is. I may go back to it later and rewrite; today's been a little too hectic for in-depth attention. It's still pretty much how I wanted it to be, though.

Everybody have a Happy New Year.

-Xoanon


	10. Part 1, Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: A Greater Understanding**

_Each mind has its own method._

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

* * *

Spoony, in the meantime, had recovered from his abnormal psychotic episode, and despite his many protests was being subjected to several increasingly invasive and pointless tests by the two nymphomaniacal doctors holding him prisoner in a rented hostel on Chicago's south side. The current one was a doozy. Dr. Tease was attaching diodes to his head with silicon paste, while Dr. Block was setting up a strange computer interface device of some sort. He had no idea what they were testing him for, let alone why they'd chosen to do it now. He'd been in the middle of showering when they'd sent for him.

"Can someone please tell me what the hell's going on?" he asked, hair and body still very damp from being thrust out into the world without proper drying. Puddles of water were forming on the floor over which he sat on a stool. His clothes were soaked through. Dr. Tease ignored his complaints as she attached the last diode to his scalp.

"Don't worry, Spoony," she assured. "We're just running a simple encephalograph analysis test. These diodes here will monitor your conscious and sub-consciousnesses and report any impulses they detect. Just relax and try to be as normal as possible, however hard that may be for you."

"And just so you feel extra comfortable, we've invited some of your friends to witness the testing process," Dr. Block added, turning to the door. "You gentlemen can come in now."

Three men stepped in through the door: Bennett the Sage, psychotic but lovable reviewer of bad games and anime, Brad Jones alias Cinema Snob, master of the B through Z-grade motion picture, and Luke Mochrie, otherwise known as Film Conscience, carrying a pen and notepad. These three were the only people within the tri-city area at the time of test who knew Spoony, and therefore they were Spoony's closest friends.

"What's up, sexy?" The Snob drawled, smirking at Spoony's new colander hat. Dr. Tease said it would "help with the encephelatic conduction". It still looked rather stupid.

"Are you still crazy?" Sage added. "Sure looks like it."

"Hey Brad, Bennett," Spoony replied. "And Luke. What are you guys doing here?"

"Snob and Sage were in town for a convention. We have no idea why Luke's here," Dr. Tease said.

"I'm Cinema Snob's new protégé," Luke replied proudly. "He's teaching me the tricks of the trade so I can become a…" He checked his notepad. "…'pompous, slimy, cynical know-it-all who wastes more oxygen than a forest fire', just like a real critic!"

"Very good, my little apprentice," The Snob said. "And may I say you've chosen a _very_ informative teacher."

Dr. Block began the test. "Okay, here's how this thing works…"

"That read was flat and unconvincing," Luke commented.

"Very good," The Snob agreed.

"Here's how it works," Dr. Block said again, this time with slightly more enthusiasm. "You subjects will ask Spoony a series of questions, and his subconscious will formulate a response and answer them here." She tapped the computer screen, a glowing orange cursor on it forming the response mechanism.

"We'll begin with some rudimentary questions," Dr. Tease continued. "Gentlemen, you may proceed."

Sage held up one of the index cards Tease had given him. "Uh, Spoony, what are you thinking about right now?"

Spoony thought for half a second. Something flashed on the screen:

_["FRIDAY" BY REBECCA BLACK] _

"Wait a minute! I never said that!" Spoony shouted.

"But your mind did," Dr. Tease replied.

"Oh, isn't science embarrassing?" Dr. Block pondered.

"My mind did not say that!" Spoony cried again. The screen flashed a new response:

_[YES, IT DID.]_

"No it didn't!"

_[YES, IT DID.]_

"No it didn't!"

_[YOU'RE STILL THINKING ABOUT IT.]_

"Well now I am, because the damn machine put the song in my head!"

_[LIAR.]_

"Alright, let's get real," The Snob said, tossing his cards aside. "Spoony, how often do you listen to Rebecca Black?"

"Never!"

_[12 TIMES A DAY.] _

"Why do you like her so much?" Luke cut in.

"I don't!"

_[SHE REMINDS ME OF MY LONG-LOST SISTER.]_

"Wait a minute, you have a sister?" Sage asked.

"No!"

_[YES.]_

"And she reminded you of Rebecca Black?"

_[YES.]_

"This isn't happening!" Spoony said.

"Spoony… were you sexually attracted to your sister?" The Snob asked.

"What the fuck kind of question is—"

_[YES.]_

_ "FUCK!" _

"This is brilliant!" Dr. Tease exclaimed, she and Dr. Block writing down every bit of sordid information as fast as it spilled from Spoony's mind. "We could make every scientific journal this year with this goldmine!"

"Can we change the subject please?" Spoony pleaded.

"All right, then," Sage said. "Spoony… what did you really think of _Highlander 2_?"

_[WASN'T THAT BAD.]_

"_Mazes and Monsters_?" The Snob said.

_[TOM HANKS IS DREAMY.]_

"The last four _Final Fantasy_ games?" Luke said.

_[GUILTY PLEASURES.]_

"Wow, you are such a phony," Luke stated emphatically. Spoony, who at this point looked like he was ready to combust, screamed: "MOVING ON, PLEASE?"

"Alright, the machine works. We've proven that much," Dr. Block said. "Proceed to the really important questions, Dr. Tease."

"Remind me to ask him if he's a transvestite," The Snob said to Luke. Instantly, the machine wrote:

_[YES.]_

_ "GODDAMNIT!"_

The Snob chuckled. "I love this thing."

* * *

The Critic had tried all night to reach the doctors. Apparently, they'd been having too much fun with their little to answer their phone, and he'd had no luck in reaching them, getting their answering machine every ten rings. He'd given up at around three AM. So he couldn't even call someone on the phone when he needed to. Some man of action he was.

The next morning, there was a knock at the door. He opened it to find a woman standing on his front stoop. She was wearing a pink half-sweater, a low cut blue shirt and jeans, along with dark brown hair drawn up in cartoonish pigtails, and holding what looked like half a costume store in her arms. This woman was the person responsible for sending Drs. Block and Tease to Spoony's rescue, or lack thereof.

"Uh, hello?" she said indignantly. "What part of _Rocky Horror Picture Show _crossover review did you not understand? I'm only in town for the next two days."

The Critic sighed. "Come on in, Nostalgia Chick. It's a long story."

She complied, and The Critic shut the door quickly after her. He had no idea why he didn't want to be seen letting a strange woman into his house. He'd already lost all the standing he could lose with his neighbors. "You're planning to wear those fishnets, right?" he asked.

"Nope," The Chick smiled.

"Make yourself at home," The Critic grumbled, stalking off to the kitchen to make coffee. "I suppose you're wondering why I've been acting so weird lately, which means you've come here to find out the straight skinny on everything that's been happening…"

"Not really. I just thought it was time for another crossover," The Chick replied.

"Oh. Sure." The Critic found the beans and began to mulch them, talking over the din of the coffee grinder. "Well, the fact of it is that I've been placed under house arrest for unpaid parking tickets, all thanks to some asshole with a spaceship who's tormenting me for blowing up his planet…"

"Linkara?"

"No, some alien guy." The Critic tapped the ground up beans into a filter and shoved it into the coffeemaker. "And Spoony's been acting like a fruitcake for the past couple of days. He came all the way here from Arizona to talk to me about something called the Hole. And he sounds sort of like Ma-Ti now. So I've got your two doctors doing God-knows-what to his brain, and I'm stuck here with a fucking beeper super-glued to my ankle."

"Sounds pretty sucky."

"You'd better believe it." The coffeemaker hissed, dropping a spackled brown liquid into the Pyrex pot. The Critic watched it slowly fill. "And to top it all off, Last Angry Geek broke in here last night. He was talking about a whole bunch of crazy stuff too, about how 'the plot connects us all' or something. He told me I had to talk to Spoony and figure all this stuff out. I sort of got it—I mean at least I thought I did—but now I just don't know."

The coffee was finished. The Critic poured two cups, added sugar, salt for The Chick's cup, and cream. "And that's the gist of it. I'm fucked, Spoony's fucked, Ma-Ti's super-fucked, and the whole shit-filled world keeps on spinning regardless. Story of my life."

The Critic started down the stairs. "I always knew I'd pay for my crimes against humanity someday. I just thought, y'know, it would be delivered by somebody from humanity." He turned the corner into the living room. "I mean—"

The Critic stopped. The Chick was sitting at the computer in the corner. She had Skype up and was pressing her chest to the screen. She pulled away once she realized The Critic was watching, embarrassed

"What? You said make yourself at home," she said.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Nobody."

"Alright, that is fucking it!" there came a voice from the speakers. "I swear to God, Nostalgia Chick, if you call me again I am taking out a restraining order! Do you hear me? A re-strain-ing—"

The Chick clicked out of Skype, and turned to The Critic with a nervous smile.

"Was that Todd in the Shadows?" The Critic asked. "You're still chasing after that guy?"

"Yes," The Chick confessed.

"Why?"

"I don't know, it's just… there's something about a guy in a mask who's clearly hiding some deep emotional trauma that's so sexy and mysterious, y'know?"

"Sexy and mysterious, eh?" The Critic sat down, handing The Chick her cup and cradling his in his lap. "You mean like the mystery of why he still has the hots for Obscurus Lupa?"

The Chick scoffed. "That Bozo the Cow! What does that ten-dollar-a-box hair-dyed tart have that I—I mean, he has the hots for Lupa? Who knew?"

"Anyway…" The Critic set his cup down on the table. "What really concerns me is this whole Spoony/Ma-Ti thing. That and these weird dreams I've been having."

"So you're having weird dreams now too?"

"Yeah, it sounds stupid, but a lot of weird stupid things have been happening lately. It's kind of hard not to notice. And the weirdest thing is that every time I get one of these dreams, I feel…" He tried hard to sum it up, and failed. "I feel like they're calling me someplace."

"Calling you to the loony bin?" The Chick said.

"It sounds crazy too, I know. But every time I get one of these dreams it feels like its calling me to someplace important, someplace where I belong, someplace where… I can make a real difference. I don't know what's going on. I don't know about Spoony or Ma-Ti or anything. I just…" The Critic sighed. "I just want to know what's calling me."

The Chick sensed that The Critic was undergoing a deep existential crisis, and decided to help him out a little. She crossed the room and sat down on the armrest of his chair.

"Critic," she said gently, "I know this is a rough time for you, but do you think that you could find the energy in you somewhere to give me Lupa's phone number so we can crank call her?"

The Critic thought for a moment.

"Yeah, sure. I could use the entertainment."

* * *

"Alright, enough shenanigans." Dr. Block typed another command into the computer console and turned to the now-mortified-beyond-all-measurement Spoony. "Spoony, I want you to try and remember exactly what happened when you started having these episodes. Can you remember anything at all about entering The Critic's house?"

"Well," Spoony said. "I, um... um…"

At that moment, the lights in the ceiling started to flicker. The Snob, Luke, and Sage all instinctively stepped away from Spoony as the halogen tubes crackled in their cases. The computer screen with its semi-falsified data winked out, replaced with a bizarre looping pattern of static.

"Increase bandwidth to his brain!" Dr. Tease ordered. "Get us back in sync!"

"That's what I'm trying to do! The thing's locked up!" Dr. Block replied.

"What's going on?" Spoony asked nervously.

"Oh nothing, nothing," Dr. Tease said quickly. "We've just run into a little technical hiccup. Everything's fine!"

Everything is _not_ fine," she relayed to her counterpart _sotto voce_. Dr. Block nodded in agreement, hands flying over the keyboard trying to correct the electronic imbalance. The screen still remained snowy, but in the static there was a jumping pattern of black polygons, a figure of some sort…

"I think I've… got it!" Dr. Block shouted triumphantly. With a last flourish on the keys, the screen had returned to its uniform black. The tests could continue.

"Excellent! Start asking him the questions from Test Set B," Dr. Tease said to Sage.

"Okay, sure thing." Sage flipped to Set B, reading a question from the top of the first card. "Spoony, what is your name?"

"Spoony."

"Your real name."

"Noah Antwiler."

At once, the screen flashed:

_[MA-TI.]_

The six stared at the screen in disbelief. That had to be a glitch of some kind. And yet there it was, written in capitalized fluorescent orange, four little characters denoting the residence of a strange Indian semi-teen who had died more than a year ago within Spoony's mind. M-A-T-I. Ma-Ti.

"Intriguing…" Dr. Block studied the readout, nose nearly pressed to the glass screen. "The subject's subconscious believes itself to be Ma-Ti. It could be a traumatic mental reaction brought on by the death of a beloved friend, or maybe Spoony's just double nuts."

"Ma-Ti wasn't really a friend," The Snob said. "He was more of a wacky ethnic neighbor brought on a sitcom in season three to drive up ratings before eminent cancellation."

"Yeah, we didn't really do much talking as friends. More like teasing and berating," Sage added.

"I didn't know him all that well, but he seemed okay," Luke said.

"Keep asking questions," Dr. Tease said. "Enough data and we may have a chance to disprove the existence of an afterlife!"

Sage looked at the next question on the card. "Spoony, after the battle for the gauntlet, you left Arizona. Where did you go?"

"What do you mean? I never left."

_[I LEFT EARTH.]_

That was no glitch, or if it was it was a very well-programmed glitch. Dr. Block and Dr. Tease had no idea if the computer's statement was true, but the other three were fairly certain that Spoony had never travelled beyond the Earth's atmosphere, barring that one incident with Malachite he had only survived by grace of a Star Sapphire's ring.

"You left Earth?" Luke repeated.

"Why were you at The Critic's house that night?" The Snob asked.

_[PHONE HOME.]_

"Phone home?" Sage repeated this time.

"Spoony… where do you think you are right now?"

"What, in this room? Right here?" Spoony replied.

The screen said:

_[JUPITER.]_

"What?" Spoony squinted at the screen, vainly trying to decipher some sort of invisible coded message explaining why he was supposed to be near Jupiter. The screen continued on without him: _[THE JOVIAN MOON OF EUROPA, 120,000 KILOMETERS FROM SURFACE, ELLIPTICAL ORBIT.]_

"Well, that's flummoxing," Dr. Block said, wiping her glasses.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I'll admit this chapter has more than enough padding in it. The Critic's scene was a little tough to nail down, but I felt it was necessary for us to recap everything that's piled up so far. In the movie we just skipped to The Chick making kissy faces (among other things) at Todd; I had to give The Critic something to do to preserve the flow. Aside from that, the interactions between Spoony and his tormenters was fun to write, and I think I did a much better job there.

A Happy New Year to everyone now that Part One's almost finished. Here's hoping that we can complete the whole story before Year Five.

-Xoanon


	11. Part 1, Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Some Freaky Stuff**

_Run into a good friend of mine_

_Show me your sign, reach for the stars…_

* * *

Allison Pregler, alias Obscuras Lupa, had run into a fairly decent amount of bullshit crank calls in her life, but this one really took the inedible, filth-encrusted cake. She was sitting at her computer, iPod volume turned down, listening to a "Secretary of Planes and Stuff" tell her that her head was too big and ginger to let planes fly anywhere near it and that she needed to dye her hair immediately to prevent a mid-air collision. The voice vomiting from the computer speakers had an obnoxiously fake Southern twang easily separable from the real thing, and beneath it laid a slimy whine Lupa knew all too well.

_"…and so, as head of the FAA, I believe it would be in our nation's best interest if you would please stop dying your head that horrible shade of reddish-brown so that our pilots will no longer be blinded by your hellishly slutty colors,"_ the Secretary finished. There was a thin snicker in the background, followed by a hushed "shut up, dumbass, she'll hear you." Normally, Lupa would have responded to such a grievous insult with a serious ass-kicking along with several metric tons of profanity, but seeing as only one of those things could travel through phone lines, she opted instead for her most devastating weapon: the power of snark.

"Well thank you, Ms. Secretary," she began courteously. "I'll be sure to use a different dye from now on. By the way, so long as we're talking about airspace disruptions, you might want to put a certain Lindsay Ellis on your maps."

"Do wha—_I mean, do what to who now?_"

"Oh yes, her obviously padded bra is far too large to warrant anything less than a thousand-foot-high signal tower planted directly into her cleavage," Lupa continued. She spun around in her chair, gears clanking and whirring inside her "catty comebacks" mental factory. "And if an Argentinean soccer team were to crash-land onto her breasts and be forced to eat themselves or starve, it would be a public-relations disaster! I implore you, madam, please—"

The Chick angrily clicked out of Skype. "Damn, she's good." The Critic, eyes and mind both focused more on the region just south of The Chick's neck, snapped back to polite society so hard he suffered whiplash.

"Oh yeah. Real comedienne, her…" He turned away to avoid the withering look The Chick usually gave him whenever he attempted to gaze into her crystal balls. The Chick would have followed through, but just then she noticed something strange had happened...

"Hey, what's that?" she asked.

"Just a mole. You should probably get it looked at, though."

"I meant _that_." The Chick turned The Critic's head back toward the computer. The entire monitor had gone completely black. The only thing left on it was a small green cursor winking away in the top left hand corner of the screen, and next to it was a small green message. The message was:

_[HELLO?]_

The Critic, frowning, leaned closer to the desk. "Did you push anything?"

"No."

The Critic fumbled with the mouse, tapped the escape key, and turned the monitor on and off. Nothing happened. The message was still there, the cursor still blinking away. Feeling a queasy tempest forming in his stomach, he knew somehow that this thing was part the same force that had visited him night after night, the same force that called to him in his dreams, the same force that held Spoony in its thrall.

The only thing he didn't know was what it wanted from him.

[_HELLO?]_

"Hello to you too," he said.

* * *

"How the hell did you get to Europa?" Sage said to Spoony.

"What are you talking about?" Spoony replied. "I'm right here! I'm sitting right here in this room!"

"What's it like on Europa?" Luke said.

"Freezing? How the hell should I know? I've never been there!"

"Are there any Europan women, and do they need men?" The Snob asked hopefully, fulfilling the question he'd always dreamed of asking anyone in contact with alien life ever since he was ten.

"Yeah, they've got six arms and are hairy as fuck," Spoony shot back. "This is such bullshit; I'm getting out of here! Enjoy your weird-ass science fiction—"

_[THE HOLE.] _

Spoony stopped tugging at the colander and the silicone gel strapping the diodes to his head. The screen had just written a message without him. "What?"

_[THROUGH THE HOLE.]_

"The Hole?" The Snob said. "What's that?"

"It must be his home," Dr. Block replied.

"By any account, it has to be some sort of communications relay," Dr. Tease continued, leaning in to study the message. "There's no way he could be transmitting all of this to us by himself."

"The Hole?" Luke repeated. "Like a wormhole? Maybe Ma-Ti is alive in there."

"Either that, or he needs some Preparation H," Sage said.

* * *

The Critic and The Chick stared at the message on the screen, which stared back at them. The Critic, growing bolder, slowly typed out a reply and hit the enter key. After a second, it scrawled onto the screen beneath the first line:

[HELLO?]

Instantly, there was a near-inaudible beep, and another message appeared beneath the line The Critic had written:

_[IS THIS THE CRITIC?]_

Intrigued, The Critic typed:

[THAT DEPENDS. WHO IS THIS?]

Another beep, then:

_[MA-TI.]_

The Critic and Chick smirked. Ma-Ti may have been alive as a "character", but even he couldn't reach a computer in the depths of space. This had to be a fake. He typed out another line:

[MA-TI, HUH? BACK FROM THE DEAD?]

_[ASK SPOONY. HE'D __REMEMBER__.]_

In an instant, all The Critic's bravado drained out of him like water out of a sink. It _was_ Ma-Ti, the same Ma-Ti who now resided within Spoony's mind. He was back. The force occupying his computer kept going:

_[WHY DID YOU ABANDON ME, CRITIC?] _it asked. _[WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME TO DIE?]_

"Turn this off," he told The Chick. The Chick reached for the computer console's power button and pressed it. It didn't work. She pressed it again, and again.

"I can't," she said.

"Why not?"

"I can't! It won't let me!"

_[WHY DID YOU PUT ME IN A CAN AND SHOOT ME INTO SPACE?] _The computer kept typing by itself, the sentences coming in faster and faster now. _[DID YOU THINK I WOULD LIKE IT OUT HERE CRITIC? IN THE COLD? IN THE DARK? IS THIS WHAT YOU DO TO YOUR FRIENDS? DID YOU JUST WANT TO BE RID OF ME AT LAST? TELL ME WHY YOU DID IT. _

_TELL ME WHY. _

_ WHY? _

_ WHY?_

_**WHY? ]**_

The Critic didn't really know himself.

* * *

"Enlighten me, Doctor," Dr. Tease asked Dr. Block, tapping the computer screen. "How could Ma-Ti, who's currently in orbit around Jupiter, transmit this information to us without any noticeable time delay? For that matter, how did we even manage to contact him in the first place?"

Dr. Block snapped her fingers. "Of course! Wormhole theory! It's the only possible way his information could get to us instantaneously!"

"Wait, wormholes?" Spoony said. "Inside my mind?"

"Not in your mind, though there's certainly enough room for one there," Dr. Tease said. "The Hole, or whatever Ma-Ti's residing in, is actually an extra-systemic space anomaly orbiting around the moon of Europa—a pulsar-type 16-A, if I've studied my astro-quantum theory correctly."

"And its transmitting bits of Ma-Ti's consciousness to us every time it sends off another burst of particles. It's the only logical explanation!" Dr. Block added.

"Wait, how does that even work?" Sage asked. Suddenly, the lights flickered again, and a strange whooping noise filled the room. Onscreen, the lines from beyond the planet disappeared, replaced with a strange set of mathematical diagrams and equations accompanied by a multitude of odd texts in several languages and alphabets, all of them passing by far too fast to be read.

"What's going on?" Luke asked, alarmed.

"He's… showing us…" Dr. Block replied breathlessly. At these words, a pop-up of what appeared to be a gravitational vortex appeared on the screen, along with a strange set of rolling words: _"…velocity is greater than the speed of light. The photon sphere is the distance from the singularity light can orbit around the Hole. The photon sphere is 1.5 Swartzchild radii from the singularity. Past the photon sphere, nothing can maintain a circular orbit…" _

* * *

_[HELP ME, CRITIC.] _the text on the screen begged. _[HELP ME PLEASE. I WANT TO COME HOME. HELP ME COME HOME, CRITIC.] _

Gorge rimming, The Critic typed out a response, fingers almost hitting the wrong keys and rendering the message completely illegible. He pressed enter:

[WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?] he asked.

There was an unnoticeable pause, then:

_[REMEMBER.] _It was only that one word, repeated again, and again, and again.

_[REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER. REMEMBER.]_

It filled up a whole line, then another, and another, traipsing across the entire screen, a green sea of text asking, shouting, screaming the one simple command.

Remember.

"See if this is happening on your computer," he asked The Chick, The Chick, glad to get further away from the creepy electronic malfunction, jumped up and sped for the kitchen. The green letters continued on their endless march.

* * *

"Looks like Stephen Hawking's grocery list," The Snob said, inspecting the strange simulacrum closely.

"It's astounding!" Dr. Tease said, watching the indecipherable theorems pass by. "New methods of extra-nebulous experimentation! Enhanced quantum theory revelations! The solution to interstellar travel! Who knows what could be in this guy's head?"

"It could take eight Will Huntings to decipher all this. Maybe more," Dr. Block agreed.

"Uh, I don't think I like this," Spoony chimed in. He was duly ignored.

* * *

The Chick ran into the kitchen, pulled her laptop from her overnight bag and opened it. Instantly, there was the same scroll of green text zooming across the screen; she hadn't even woken it from hibernation. The scrolling suddenly gave way to different pictures, equations, diagrams, a picture of some kind of space octopus. This was weird, she thought, too weird. And to think all she'd wanted to do today was to get The Critic dressed up like Dr. Frank N. Furter again…

* * *

"Spoony," Dr. Block asked. "Where is the Hole?"

The power went out, plunging the room into darkness. When the lights came back up, all the diagrams and equations on the screen were gone, replaced with a deep orange glow. Spoony was gone too. He was slumped over in the chair, eyes wide and staring, mouth unhinged, limbs palsied and twitching.

A gentle throbbing drum filled the room—

_Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet. _

"Spoony?" Sage snapped his fingers in front of his friend's inert face. "Spoony!"

"Great. Now he's in the space between spaces," The Snob said.

"That line was from a critically contested movie."

"Don't push it, kid."

Suddenly, the orange glow on the screen disappeared. What replaced it was hundreds upon hundreds of star charts, galaxy plotters, stellar manifolds and cosmic miscellanea, all of them being rooted through like mad. Dr. Block and Dr. Tease watched as their computer combed through thousands of terabytes of information, searching through every map in every NGC or Hubble Telescope database on the entire planet. Ma-Ti was finding himself, in the literal sense.

"What's he doing?" The Snob asked, shaking Spoony fruitlessly.

"He's going through everything," Dr. Tease replied. "And I mean _everything_."

"How's he even reaching this? Our computers don't have this information!" Dr. Block asked. Spoony began to convulse, his chair scraping over the floor. His friends tried to restrain him. It was no use. He rocked back and forth, spilling out strings of spittle from his lips. His mind was like an empty creek being filled up in a flash flood.

_Remember…_ he croaked. _Remember…_

* * *

The monitor was full. The green remembers coated it like a screensaver from Hell, a klaxon blaring from the speakers that had been turned off and unplugged. The Critic stared at the screen intently. He'd tried getting the thing to respond to him—to his apologies, his insults, his queries, anything. It had ignored him. There was only one option left. It was time to starve this little freak.

He jumped up from the chair and sped to the wall outlet. Grasping the power strip's plug in his hands, he pulled hard, ignoring the pleading guilty voice in his mind. He'd already made it a year without Ma-Ti. He wasn't going to give in now. He pulled harder, klaxon still wailing in his ears. Little by little, the stubborn prongs which had been caked into the outlet by years of dust buildup began to come loose. Finally, with one gigantic tug, he pulled it free. The screen went dark. The klaxon ceased.

Sighing with relief, The Critic collapsed back into his chair, tossing the plug away carelessly. He leaned back in satisfied exhaustion. It was over.

The monitor came back on. The klaxon reignited at double its original fury. The Critic perked back up.

He looked at the computer.

He looked over at the plug. It was lying on the living room floor.

He looked back at the computer.

"Mother," he said quietly.

* * *

Spoony's convulsions worsened. The charts blazed by more and more ferociously. Sage, Luke and The Snob stepped back from the console, wondering what in the hell was going on. Doctors Block and Tease leaned in closer, wondering the same thing. A strange alarm sounded from nowhere. A series of orange boxes began to zero in on a map of the Milky Way Galaxy, quickly zooming into the Orion Arm…

* * *

"It's on everything! The computer, the TV, even the microwave!" The Chick leapt back into the living room, and The Critic slowly rose from his chair to join her. Together the two backed further and further away from the paroxysm-having machine. At least it wasn't playing _Ghostbusters_ again, The Critic thought. The messages on the screen had become more erratic now, flashing by at breakneck speed, becoming garbled or half-rendered in their fury. The strange star catalogs took up most of the air time now, with the remembers coming in less and less. It was all building to some sort of climax…

"What's it doing?" The Chick said.

"It's learning," The Critic replied, moving The Chick in front of him.

* * *

The Snob and Sage steadied Spoony as the boxes on the screen panned lower and lower into the midst of the galactic spiral. The reaches of intergalactic space had now been bypassed, and the screen was now full of myriads of stars. It aimed for the Interstellar Neighborhood, then the Oort Cloud, then the Solar System. The various paths of the planets were shown now, their orbits taking them around the Sun in milliseconds.

"Look! There it is!" Dr. Block cried, pointing to a strange spiral marking next to Jupiter. It was orbiting above a tiny facsimile of Europa. The two doctors stared at it.

"Spoony," Dr. Block asked eagerly. "Is that the Hole?"

Spoony gurgled. The screen gave its last reply:

_[YES, YOU IDIOTS.]_

And then it exploded.

* * *

The Critic's computer screen exploded. The Critic and The Chick dove for cover behind the couch. A massive blast shook the room, raining dust and plaster from the ceiling. The alarm ceased. Carefully, the two peaked out from behind the cushions. The Critic's computer was gone, along with most of the house's outer wall. A smoking metal corpse and several large chunks of siding littered the carpet, a small crater in the floor billowing copious amounts of smoke. In the street car alarms were going off. Everything else was silent. The Critic turned to face The Chick, and said:

"That was _definitely_ meant for you."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **_Lots _of page breaks this chapter. Lots.

Like I said, a few things had to be changed around for the sake of flow. Nothing serious. Hope you all enjoyed Part 1. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. I don't bite. I'm going back to school this Monday. You'll still be seeing chapters posted every Monday, Wednesday and Friday if I can swing it. We may have some problems if I can't keep writing Parts 5-8 while I'm keeping up with schoolwork, though.

Venus and Mars are alright tonight.

-Xoanon


	12. Part 2, Chapter 11

**Part 2: Space: The Final Frontier**

**Chapter 11: A Visit from a Prick**

_The nine most dangerous words in the English language are "I'm from the government, and I'm here to help."_

—Ronald Reagan

* * *

Prick was sitting at his desk, going over the latest draft of his copyright protection opus which he'd managed to wrangle from the printer. He was especially proud of Clause 7, Section 3, which forbade the _private_ use of copyrighted material without express written permission of the copyright holder. It was a legal parameter so broad no thief could ever hope to escape it. Pure genius, he marveled. He was still marveling over it when Walter walked in and interrupted his ruminations with a large rustling sheet of something-or-other.

"Uh… sir, this just came in from the NSA," he said, nervously adjusting his glasses. "It's showing interesting activity occurring all over the 'net. Originally, we thought it was just a worm overriding all the ASL systems, but then it started displaying independent localized behavior—"

"I've told you before, Walter," Prick interrupted, "I write internet policy. I don't understand it."

"Oh. Well, there's something odd happening with our computers."

"That's better. What is it?"

"I think you should see this." Walter laid the sheet of paper down on Prick's desk. Prick looked at it. It was a machine drawn picture showing a three-dimensional contour map of a spiral—no, a vortex. Scrawled around the edges of the vortex were a number of mathematical calculations he glanced at briefly. It wasn't the equations he was concerned with; it was the map. Prick may have been only a politician, but he understood super-science when he saw it. This was a diagram of a wormhole.

"Where did you get this?" he asked Walter sternly.

"Don't know, sir. One of our computers just started printing it out," Walter replied.

"Is it possible to track the source to its… source?"

"Yes, sir. We'll start by—"

"Then do so immediately. Once you've found its location, contact Terl and have him provide us with tactical support. We're on to something, Walter my boy. Something big…"

* * *

That something was currently sitting zonked out of his mind in a suburban Chicago rental home, eyes rolled back into his head, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Drs. Block and Tease stood beside Spoony, tsking disapprovingly. Luke, Snob and Sage were still there also, wondering what had happened to their friend to leave him in such a deplorable state. Compounding things was the business with the monitoring equipment, whose explosion had reduced it to a steaming black husk in the middle of the room. The damage it had done to the walls and floor ensured that The Nostalgia Chick definitely wouldn't be getting her deposit back.

"I'm concerned about Spoony," Dr. Block said, her hair still smoking from being so close to the incendiary device.

"I am too," Dr. Tease replied, arms bandaged with several layers of gauze and hands occupied with an odd beeping gadget covered in lights and hundreds of buttons. Every so often the two prongs attached to it would give off small shocks of electricity. "These readings suggest that his brain's neural energy status has been severely altered."

"So he's still alive?" Luke said, poking the sedate Spoony in the cheek with a pencil.

"Technically speaking. His brain's working, at least," Dr. Tease replied. "From what we can discern, even with our equipment destroyed he's still downloading vast amounts of information from… somewhere..."

"How much information?" Sage asked.

"Physically speaking? Enough that it would make that wiener of yours about twice the size of Chicago and three times the height of Mount Everest," Dr. Block replied casually.

Sage looked at the hot dog in his pudgy fingers. "Wow. That's a big wiener."

"Dude, you are hung," Luke agreed.

"And that's not all it's doing." Dr. Block pulled a readout from the cerebro-meter Dr. Tease held in her hands. "According to this, the signal's increased Spoony's brainpower almost twenty-fold. Most critics only use 5% of their brains; whatever he's receiving has boosted that to 92%."

"Can't we just pull the plug and wake him up?" Sage said.

"Impossible. Whatever he's hooked up to,_ it's still pumping,_" Dr. Tease said.

"Have you ever tried to unhook a hose from a fire hydrant while it's still running? Psheeeeeeeeew!" Dr. Block pantomimed a hose being thrown every which way by errant water pressure.

"But it's just information," Sage continued. "What could happen?"

"That's just the thing: we don't know," Dr. Tease said. "If the signal's simply information, then if we unplug Spoony, the connection will be broken no harm no foul. But if it's not, and there's something else behind it, something we can't anticipate…"

"The consequences would be disastrous, to say the least," Dr. Block finished. "Considering the power this thing's displayed already, we'd be better off playing it safe."

"But what happens when his brain fills to 100%?" Luke asked.

"Kaboom," the two doctors said at once.

"Jesus!" Sage cried.

"Now you see the conundrum," Dr. Tease said.

"Well we have to do something! I don't want to see my friend's head explode!"

"Not to worry. We always have a contingency," Dr. Block reassured. Immediately, Dr. Tease produced a large black umbrella and opened it up. Sage and Luke were less than impressed.

"It's better than the original plan, at least," Dr. Tease offered. "That one involved keeping him in a plastic bubble to help catch the grey matter splatter."

The Snob walked back into the room. "Well, I don't think anybody outside heard the explosion. We're safe for now. How's Spoony holding up?"

"Not good. Ask Sage about his wiener," Luke replied.

The Snob looked at Sage. Sage smiled back. "No!"

* * *

At that moment, the front door to the house imploded. Smoke and splinters of wood were sent everywhere by a charge of some exotic plastic explosive. A team of black-masked soldiers swarmed into the living room, "a token of my master's esteem" Terl had called them. He had beamed them down from on high once the source of the disturbance was tracked to this location. In behind them stepped Prick and a very nervous looking Walter. Prick surveyed the damage briefly, and then swept further into the house. It would do no good to rest on civilian property damage now; money was at stake.

He addressed the soldiers: "Impeccable work, gentlemen. That'll be all for now." At this command, the jackboots retreated back out the blasted portico. Walter opened his mouth to object to their only protection being dismissed from duty, but said nothing.

"Come, Walter." Prick swooped down the adjacent hallway toward the back rooms. Walter followed close behind him. At the end there was a set of doors. Prick stepped up to one of them, putting an ear to the wood. He heard voices behind it:

_ "Come on! Just ask me one time…"_

_ "No way! This is just a setup for some stupid sex joke!"_

_ "It's not, Snob, seriously. Would I like to you?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "Okay, fine. Luke, ask me about my wiener."_

_ "I already gave my comment, thank you." _

"They're behind this one," Prick whispered to his attendant. "Ready the battering ram."

"Uh… maybe you could just try the knob?" Walter offered.

"Oh sure, suck the fun out of it," Prick grumbled. He tried the knob. The door was unlocked. Sighing, he made up for the lack of drama by wrenching the door open and stalking menacingly into the room. Inside were three miscreants—one of them deep-throating a hot dog, for God's sake—two scientist bimbos, and what appeared to be an invalid in a chair. He stepped to the front of their little group and introduced himself.

"Uh, can we help you?" The Snob asked.

"My name is Lame R. Prick, member of the US House of Representatives and fully-naturalized American citizen," Prick replied. "In the interests of national security, and in the name of the United States government and corporate hierarchy, we are here to confiscate your spoon." He pointed at the man in the chair, which he assumed was the "Spoony One" he was looking for. "You have thirty seconds to comply."

"What?" Sage said. "Are you serious?"

"Yes sir, I'm entirely serious," Prick replied. He pointed at the dregs of the computer system. "Shut this off. Shut it all off immediately."

"Shutting this equipment off would have rather… negative consequences, Mr… um, person…" Dr. Tease stuttered, moving in front of the computer.

"_Extremely_ negative consequences," Dr. Block added. "Like, deadly consequences, deadly as in everyone in the tri-state area dying a horrible death."

Prick stepped forward to meet Dr. Block with his piercing gaze. "The deaths of everyone in the tri-state area do not concern me, madam," he hissed. "Such matters are the responsibility of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. After we are through here, you may call them if you wish. Now if you would be so kind as to shut your equipment off—"

"I'm afraid we can't do that!" Dr. Tease blurted. "Something out there is talking to Mr. Antwiler, and we don't know what!"

"Pulling the plug on him now would be horrendously misadvised!" Dr. Block agreed.

"Yeah! Ask Sage about his wiener!" Luke said. Prick turned and raised an eyebrow at Sage, who fingered the meat tube he held nervously.

"Well when you take that statement out of context…" Sage didn't get to finish as Prick ordered the doctors to shut their device off again, this time at a considerably louder volume than before. The doctors flinched, but still refused to budge. "Walter!" he ordered. "Do your civic duty and unplug that infernal contraption!"

"On it, sir." Walter made for the plug on the other side of the room. He was stopped by the willow-like arm of The Cinema Snob.

"My friend, don't be a douchebag," he said, matching Walter's avoidant gaze threateningly. Walter, who always somehow managed to find himself caught between a rock and an angrier rock, turned to face his boss.

"Sir… I-I'm not much of a medical doctor…"

"Neither are they," Prick sneered, gesturing at Block and Tease. "According to our records, they got their _honorary_ degrees from the Freudian University gift shop! They both majored in psychosexual fixation!"

"Is that true?" The Snob asked, interest piqued.

"Absolutely not!" Dr. Block declared.

"I got mine out of a cereal box!" Dr. Tease nodded proudly.

"Continue with your shutting off of the machine, Walter," Prick said. Walter, without any recourse left, continued across the room to the wall outlet. As he did so, the rest of the group migrated back toward the door. The two doctors, seeing that Prick was rather tall, hid behind him, Dr. Block unfurling her umbrella cringingly. Everyone held their breath as Walter pulled the plug, everyone except Prick, who had his arms folded smugly across his chest. The plug came from the wall easily, and Walter dropped it. It fell from the outlet to the floor with a thud. Suddenly, a massive siren began sounding, and a red light on top of the fried computer console began to pulse. The group turned to look at Spoony. He was no longer drooling, or sprawled out over the chair's frame like a gelatin-man. He was sitting bolt upright, eyes closed, mouth no longer open, the picture of serenity, which was all the more jarring considering what was about to happen next.

The siren's wail grew louder. Sage, The Snob, and Luke all made a mad dash for the exit, the two doctors following behind them, umbrella abandoned in Prick's arms. Both he and Walter turned to look at Spoony. His eyes were still closed, but something odd was happening to them. The flesh of his eyelids was getting redder, and redder, as if there was some horrific type of beetle burrowing its way out of his sockets. As the redness grew more and more pronounced, a thin breeze sprung up from nowhere. The ground began to shake. Something was coming. Something big.

"What the devil…?"

Spoony's eyes snapped open. There were no eyeballs behind his lids anymore, just pure white. Walter, terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought, began to inch backward.

"Sir, what should we—" He stopped speaking when he realized that he was now alone, and that Prick had bolted for the front door at the exact moment Spoony's eyelids had fluttered. He was now alone. A loud whirring noise made itself apparent, growing over the murmur of the klaxon. The strange source-less wind grew into a gale. It blasted inside the room, twisting the fibrous cables on the walls and scattering research papers to and fro. Spoony's head slowly twisted up toward the ceiling. He was ready to unleash his full destructive power.

"Oh shit," Walter squeaked. That pretty much summed it up.

* * *

Those living next to 411 Chestnut Avenue in South Chicago were treated to a rather unusual sight that day. First, three grown men came streaming out of the house, screaming at the top of their lungs, one of them carrying a foot-long in one hand. Two grown women in lab coats and bandages came out of the house shortly after them, doing exactly the same. Lastly there stepped out a dapper looking, mustachioed gentleman in a black suit, who cringed and broke into a run as a massive explosion ripped off the rental house's roof. The explosion was caused by a gigantic beam of light, a stream of pure energy laced with information sent to Earth from the cosmos beyond.

It arced high into the sky like a neon geyser. As it reached its apex, a number of strange orbs appeared from within it, bulbous things with bright comets' tails. They too began to arc across the cityscape under their own power, leaving purple-tinged contrails in their wake. The six stood across from the house and watched the event unfold, all of them trying to make sense of just what the hell was happening.

"What does it mean?" Luke asked wondrously, turning to his mentor.

"It's a sign," The Snob replied grimly. "A sign we're in for a movie parody."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Leave it to Prick to attempt a citizen's arrest, and end up dooming the world to vibrantly-colored holocaust. _C'est la vie._

Walter's demise wasn't addressed at all in the movie, and is just barely being addressed here. I'm going to guess it was the Hole's energy that absorbed him. There's no way staying in a room with something that powerful can be any good for you.

-Xoanon


	13. Part 2, Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: The Hole-lets**

_Ain't no use jivin'_

_Ain't no use jokin'_

_Everything is broken_

—Bob Dylan

* * *

The electrified data stream loomed over downtown Chicago like a fruity mushroom cloud. People on the sidewalk watched dumbstruck as its strange orbs floated out over the cityscape like party balloons run amok. Traffic stood still as countless motorists tried to get a good look at the glowing monstrosities as they floated by. On Willis Tower's observation deck, a crowd of tourists watched as the jetted lights laced themselves around the building's steel girders. They made eerie sounds as they passed; an odd sizzling audible even through the thick glass panes.

The orbs spread all over the city, reaching every neighborhood and suburb in mere minutes. Countless more took off in all directions from the terrestrial quasar, some reaching high enough into the air to be hooked by the jet stream. From there they were propelled far and wide across the earth.

* * *

Mat Williams, AKA "Welshy", put on his third favorite beanie. It had been his third favorite beanie since childhood, and he assumed it would be his third favorite beanie until the day he died and was returned to the cold Welsh soil from whence he'd sprung. He turned toward the mirror to admire its threadbare texture. All of a sudden, there were purple lights in his eyes, an odd ringing in his ears, and the taste of strawberries in his mouth. But just as quickly as all these strange sensations came, they disappeared, leaving Welshy alone once more. He turned to face the mirror again.

His beanie was gone. In its place there sat a horrifyingly floppy ten gallon hat. "Weird," he said.

* * *

Diamanda Hagan, the Lecher Bitch, sat upon a throne of lashed-together skulls. In her gnarled hands she held a peanut butter and banana sandwich—an evil peanut butter and banana sandwich, but a sandwich nonetheless. With its nourishment she would be able to better hone her devious mind toward the annihilation of the forces of good and complete her plans to take over the world and enslave all mankind. She brought the sandwich to her mouth. There came a blinding flash of purple light, the sound of dogs barking, and something smelling like burnt flesh. The din disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving her with her sandwich.

Only now, it was a minion's handwich instead. The bewildered peon's hand was now stuck tight between the two slices of bread in her grip. Shrugging, she took a huge bite. The minion screamed in agony. Good, she thought. Shrieks of pain did wonders for her appetite.

* * *

Daren Jackson, The Rap Critic, was brushing his teeth in the bathroom. His mind, focused entirely on the re-re-rewrite of his perpetually forthcoming hip-hop album, failed to notice the strange purplish orb that floated in through the window, turning the drywall into a sheet of saltines. There was a loud thunderclap, and the sound of bees buzzing. The toothpaste momentarily turned into cream cheese. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the orb was gone.

The Rap Critic was now brushing his teeth with a stalk of asparagus. He failed to notice anything amiss.

* * *

Handsome Tom was sitting on one side of the room with his laptop. He was on page 54 of the novel he was reading. There came a sudden burst of indigo light, the smell of turpentine, and the sound of a balloon being popped. Handsome Tom was now sitting on the other side of the room, and he was on page 203.

* * *

William Dufresne, That Dude in the Suede, sheathed his sword and turned to face the door. He was covered head to toe in leather armor, carrying a knapsack stuffed to the gills with food, water, maps, medicine and many other crucial supplies. He was about to take the supreme journey to find an artifact long-removed from the face of the earth, one that would ignite a new revolution in history, theology, and the Mormon religion: the Silver Plates of Moroni. It would take a long hunt to find them, winding through the dark Amazon jungle, climbing atop the coldest peaks of the Himalayas, and questing in the dank depths of Provo, Utah. But on his honor, he would not rest, stumble or relent until they were found.

There came a mauve strobe light, and some xylophone playing. Suede stumbled momentarily, relenting from the sudden disorientation. As quickly as the manic thing had come, it went. There was now something else weighing Suede down besides his armor.

He looked down. The Silver Plates were in his arms, along with a hot crispy baguette. The quest was over before it had begun. Shrugging, he dropped his knapsack and sword on the floor and took off to the couch to rest and study the ancient treasures.

* * *

In cities all across Earth they landed, places like New York, Tokyo, London, Paris, Vancouver, Beijing, Kuala Lumpur, Sao Paulo and Dubai. They embedded themselves in the ground, in concrete, in brick and mortar, in swamps, bogs or tarns, and from there all the strangeness they held in them poured out in rivulets, seeping into the water or to the surface in pockets of gas. Cows in a field outside Edinburgh randomly spouted tentacles and second heads. People in Budapest became see-through. An entire mountain in Tibet turned into taffy. All around the world, strange things began to happen with absolutely no explanation, and with no possible way to contain their effects.

The plot was thickening.

* * *

The Critic and Chick turned away from his shattered computer and headed for the living room. As they approached, they heard something akin to a very loud thunderstorm occurring just outside. Whatever it was, they thought, it couldn't be much stranger than what they'd just seen. They were wrong.

In the living room there stood a large series of windows looking out onto the street. The Critic and Chick reached them and peered outside. Outside was utter chaos. A mob of people was running down the block screaming their heads off. Most of them didn't even look like people, instead bearing more resemblance to houseplants or the undead. Some of them were on fire. The houses didn't look much better; one of them had completely inverted itself, the outside now forming the inside. Another had taken on the look of a gingerbread cottage complete with frosting trim and gumdrop lawn ornaments. Still another was now made entirely of tinfoil. Above all the carnage there floated three purple orbs, sadistic angels who froze the grass with their touch and cause the nearby trees to whip their fronds back and forth endlessly.

"Nostalgia Chick… have I gone insane again?" The Critic asked dreamily.

"No, don't worry. I see it too. It's just the apocalypse," The Chick replied. She watched as an orb floated by, changing the mailbox out front into a stuffed cat. "Should we call the police or something?"

"Somehow, I don't think even the Naperville PD is fit to handle something like this."

There came an even louder crack of thunder. A screaming buzz filled the air. The purple in the orbs turned to crimson fire, their patterns of flight becoming even more erratic. They alighted themselves with The Critic's windows and dove, gaining speed incrementally as they rocketed to the ground, as if they were aiming for…

_"Duck!"_ The Critic flung himself to the floor as the windowpanes shattered into millions of snowflakes. The Chick dive-bombed on top of him as the orbs crossed the living room and embedded themselves in the back wall, changing the color of the wallpaper and molding in the process. There was the sound of galloping hooves and a trumpet blast, the smell of caramel and athlete's foot powder, and then nothing more. In their final frenzy, the orbs had burned themselves out completely.

There was silence in the living room, silence and a great quantity of smoke. The Chick slowly hoisted herself up onto the couch, which was now festooned in tasteful lace doilies. The Critic sat up after her. He was no longer bewildered, or afraid, or even confused by the unorthodox set of events that had happened to him in the past few days. He was simply pissed.

"Alright, that's it,"he sputtered, coughing up snowflakes. "I've had enough."

He got up and clomped to the hall closet, pulling the door open to reveal a sleek chrome box roughly the size of a mini fridge. He rolled it out of the closet, flipped open a small panel on its side to reveal a keypad, and stabbed in a set of numbers, mumbling a tired set of obscenities to himself the entire time. As he did a set of antennae on the top began to revolve at breakneck speed. A glowing tube on the side changed color from blue, to green, to red. The Critic withdrew his iPhone from his pocket and flicked to a suspiciously third-party looking app.

"What's that thing?" The Chick asked. "What are you doing?"

The Critic looked at her grimly. "Calling for reinforcements." He tapped the app once. The machine roared.

* * *

Another strange signal went out across the world. It was a beam of not-exactly-pure energy, accompanied by a force field capable of annihilating any stray particles of matter it came in contact with in order to ensure the target's safety. It always paid to have adequate protection when dealing with teleporters. One stray piece of garbage or miscalculation carried along into the beam, and the results would be messy, horrifying, and occasionally hilarious.

The beam reached a small house in Swindon first. One moment, Mathew Buck was walking around his own home completely nonchalant, and the next he was enwreathed in light, smelling ozone and methane-hydrate from particles being chopped up and redistributed elsewhere in the beam's continuum. In only three seconds he disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a smoldering pudding cup annihilated by the forcefield. In Canada, Phelan Porteous was clad in a white lab coat, sitting at a desk injecting chemicals into a test tube.

"Finally, I got that silly horror review out of the way so I can focus on what's really important: curing cancer," he exposited. "I'm almost finished, but if I get interrupted this time I'll probably never finish—"

The rest of his words were lost in the beam. All across the earth, the reviewers of That Guy with the Glasses were teleported one by one into The Critic's living room. Angry Joe was abducted from his satellite in the middle of further research; Marzgurl was beamed while watching _All Dogs go to Heaven _for the umpteenth time. The Critic and The Chick stood up to greet the incomers as they funneled in. A first bright blue light appeared, deposited its cargo, and dissipated. JewWario now stood in the middle of the room, swaying drunkenly back and forth, yellow hat askew.

"Thank you, Mario, but our duchess is in a bifurcated waffle…" he slurred, collapsing to the floor. His motionless body was ignored as Paw, Angry Joe, Marzgurl and Todd in the Shadows all came in at roughly the same time. The Chick clapped her hands and squeed, until Obscuras Lupa came in and blocked Todd from view. Todd looked much happier, though. Next came Phelous, Film Brain, a rather surly-looking Linkara wearing black gloves, a bewildered Eight Bit Mickey sporting a mustache Tom Selleck would be proud to call his own, CR, and a tall, dark and bored-looking stranger The Critic hadn't seen before. Behind him, the teleporting machine conked out. The gang was all here, more or less.

The twelve assembled geeks gazed at The Critic with contempt, or hatred, or one of the many other negative emotions they felt toward their incompetent slave-driving dictator. The Critic calmly, though ungracefully, stepped to the front of them and cleared his throat. It was time for him to make the greatest speech of his life, and considering the speeches he'd made before, that title didn't mean all that much.

"Hello again," he said. "I have something important to tell you guys…"

* * *

_"We have Spoony, my lord," _Terl announced to The Executor.

_[Excellent. Have him prepped for off-world travel immediately.] _The Executor's thin smile shined on the holo-reciever like a diamond in the pits of Hell. _[This mission was a success, my apprentice. Not only do we now possess the power of the Hole in human form, but we have also managed to successfully test our newest and most powerful weapon.]_

_"And it reached Earth?" _

_[With impeccable accuracy. Its target has been thoroughly dispatched. It will take a while for it to regenerate for a second use, but it is of no concern at this point. Everything is going exactly as I have foreseen…]_

Terl cackled. _"With The Spoony One under our sway, nothing can stop us!" _

_[Yes,_ _you would need a bizarre combination of reviewers, nerds, gamers and internet personalities to defeat us now.]_

_"And Eight Bit Mickey."_

_[Yes, of course. Eight Bit Mickey.]_

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I got really creative with the effects the orbs had. They really served to give the movie a broader scope and, more importantly, provide cameos.

-Xoanon


	14. Part 2, Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: The Speech to End All Speeches**

_We few, we happy few, we band of brothers/For he to-day that sheds his blood with me/Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile/This day shall gentle his condition;_

—_Henry V_, Act IV, Scene iii, lines 59-66

* * *

In an undisclosed location, two black-suited government thugs dragged Spoony down a dark hallway. Behind the trio walked Prick, who directed the two into a storage room off the main corridor. The agents were a consolation prize from Terl to make up for the loss of Walter, who had ended up being turned into a goldfish back in Chicago thanks to Spoony. Spoony, now perfectly lucid after having spent his beam of information several hours ago, had been trying to reason with his captors for the past half hour, with no success.

"Where are you guys taking me? What's going on?" he shouted.

"You've been cataloged by the NSA as a threat to national security," Prick replied coldly. "You are to be detained until your trial."

"What? How the fuck am I a threat to America?"

"That's classified."

"Classified my ass! Don't I get a lawyer or phone call or something?"

"Terribly sorry. Under PATRIOT Act, Part II, those loopholes have been excised."

"PATRIOT II? When'd they pass that?"

"A few weeks ago." Prick snapped his fingers. The two agents stopped. "Now, due to your... delicate situation, federal prison wouldn't be the best of environs to contain you. Therefore, we have no choice but to keep you in cardboard storage."

Prick leaned forward and bent Spoony's head down to the floor. On the floor was a large cardboard box. "Get in," he said.

"Uh... why?" Spoony asked.

"If you ask questions, the terrorists win," Prick hissed. "Get in the box."

"Why? Can't you just keep me under house arrest like The Critic?"

"Agents, lower him in." The agents complied, squashing Spoony into the box like he was a sleeping bag being stuffed into a camper. They covered his head with the flaps and taped the box shut. Spoony was now a package due for direct delivery into the waiting hands of Terl, who was due to pass over the location in his ship in less than five minutes.

"Wait, please!" Spoony pleaded. "You can just leave me in here! I don't even have a Wookiee to soothe or a hot princess to kiss! Let me out!"

Prick ignored Spoony's cries and instead turned to his agents. "Alright, men, phase one of Operation Guard the Gilded is well underway. We will soon have both the means and manpower to strike at the very heart of the ignoble terrorist threat to this country."

"Yes sir," the agents replied.

"You, inform General Terl and tell him he has his prize."

"Yes sir," the agent replied.

"You, come with me. We have a Nostalgia Critic to monitor."

"Yes sir."

The three left the sub-basement, leaving the Spoony-box for Terl to pick up with his export ray. Prick was in high spirits as they returned to the corridor. Things were progressing nicely, even in spite of the unfortunate loss of Walter. With his newest associates in the NSA, he was set to put the latest part of the plan into motion, and when SUCKA passed, no one in this great nation would dare speak out against its good and decent corporate citizenry ever again. Everything was going according to plan.

* * *

"...and that's the whole story," The Critic finished. The others, having listened to him the entire time without any objections or dissent, stood in awe at his rambling, profoundly bizarre tale. Todd was the one who spoke first.

"So let me get this straight," he said. "You're telling us that Ma-Ti is alive, and that he's lives in space..."

"Yes," The Critic said.

"…in a giant wormhole near the planet Jupiter, which is the same hole me and my team discovered a couple days ago..." Paw added.

"Yes," The Critic said.

"...and that the hole is responsible for all the freaky stuff that's been happening to you, like the thing with Spoony?" Lupa finished.

"Yes, that's precisely it," The Critic said definitively. "As you guys can plainly see, this is something bigger than we've ever tackled before. And it's not just threatening us this time. It's also threatening the dead people we've thrown into space in our oatmeal cans. This is big. This is… what did you call it, Paw?"

"Gigantically big."

"Exactly! This is gigantically big, and we need to stop it before it gets out of control!"

"Sounds like the start of another zany scheme to me," the tall, dark stranger said.

"It's not a scheme! And who are you, anyway?"

"Sad Panda, Frenchman extraordinaire at your service," the stranger replied.

"What happened to Benzaie?" Marzgurl said.

"On vacation in Marseilles; I'm watching his houseplants while he's gone."

"Alright, enough backstory," The Critic interrupted. "Like I said, there's something weird going on, and we need to stop it before it gets any weirder. Now, I know I've never asked anything of you guys before—"

"Did he really just say that?" Todd asked under his breath.

"—but this affects all of us, not just me. Ma-Ti helped save the world by defeating Malachite in that battle, and if he's still alive, then we owe it to him to go to the Hole and bring him back to Earth. Agreed?"

"Technically, I don't owe him anything. I wasn't there," Sad Panda pointed out.

"Feel free to leave, then," The Critic replied.

"Cool. See you, guys." Sad Panda turned to walk out the door.

"Get back here!" The Critic shouted. Sad Panda returned to his spot obediently. "Right, so we're in agreement? We're going to save Ma-Ti?"

The group groaned a half-assent to The Critic's proposition.

"Good. Now, Spoony seems to be the major link we have to Ma-Ti. Where is he?"

"In federal custody," there came a husky voice from the entrance hall. Into the room walked The Snob, Sage and Luke. They were all wearing bonnets and tie-dyed versions of their normal clothes for some reason. Sage was carrying a hot dog the size of a baseball bat in his arms. "The NSA came and put him under arrest. For all we know, he's on a plane to Cuba by now."

"What happened to you guys?" Marzgurl asked.

"Spoony happened," Luke replied. "He had a little trouble keeping his brain on a leash." He gestured to his clothes and new hat. "This is the aftereffect."

"What? Then where the hell were you guys?"

"In federal custody," The Snob repeated. "We were almost on that plane with him, until Sage managed to pick the lock with his giant wiener."

The others turned to Sage and his wiener for clarification.

"Don't ask. It's a specific trick," Sage said, taking a bite.

"Great, so Spoony's a no go." The Critic snapped his fingers. "He must be somewhere where I can't track him. Otherwise, the beams I used to get you all here would have picked him right up."

"Beams?" Mickey repeated.

"You know, from this thing." The Critic tapped the teleporter box with his foot. "You guys didn't wonder why you suddenly dematerialized and then reappeared in my living room?"

"Not really," Todd shrugged, adjusting his anonymizing black mask. "I've seen Lady Gaga videos. Nothing surprises me anymore."

"Alright, so if we can't use Spoony to save Ma-Ti, we're going to have to go save him ourselves. Let's do it!" The Critic started to rise from his chair. He was stopped, however, from an apt query from Lupa. "Wait, Critic," she said. "No offense… actually, a lot of offense, but nothing you just told us in that insane, rambling story of yours makes any sense. Why the hell should we trust you?"

"Yeah, you've screwed us over dozens of times before this!" Angry Joe accused.

"You've even tried to kill some of us before," The Snob chimed in. "Who's to say this 'Ma-Ti' thing isn't another trap?"

"Oh come on, guys," The Critic pleaded. "When have I ever lied to you before?"

At that moment, a very happy looking woman with black hair and a bright green t-shirt sprinted into the room from the kitchen. She was holding what looked like a very old ticket in one of her hands. The thing was smeared with dirt and torn in several places. It looked as if it had been stuffed in a mailbox for at least a year. The woman, JesuOtaku, raised it above her head in triumph. Apparently, she'd only recently gotten the message about The Critic's "free car" giveaway, the one that had ensnared most of the group last year.

"Hey, guys!" she announced cheerily to the assembled group. "Guess what? I just won a free car!"

The group was silent. Paw put a hand over his eyes in shame.

"What? I don't check my mail that often," Jesu said, letting the ticket drop to the floor.

"Do you want us to answer that question now, Critic?" Phelous sneered.

"Maybe…" The Critic squeaked in reply. "Cinema Snob, fill her in if you would."

"You're gonna love this, kid." The Snob led Jesu into the kitchen where they could converse in private. In the meantime, The Critic gathered up the remainder of his waning strength to give what was possibly the lynch pin of a new adventure, either that or an excuse for his "friends" to beat him up and steal his teleporter to use for random debauchery.

"Alright," he began, "I know that I haven't been the best… anything to you guys. I lied. I freely admit that. I lied in Kickassia and I lied to get you all together to search for Malachite's Hand. Now, I know I've made some mistakes in the past…"

"Thousands," Mickey agreed.

"And sometimes I've led you into danger…"

"Always," Phelous groaned.

"But through it all, I've always tried to have the best intentions in mind."

"Yours?" JewWario answered.

"And, for the most part, with me at the helm things have always turned out okay."

_"Never!"_ everyone but Linkara shouted.

"Okay fine! I know that whenever I get involved, it's usually a big debacle, and everyone suffers for it in the end, but this isn't about me this time! It's about Spoony, and Ma-Ti, and whatever's out there turning this world upside down! Look at The Cinema Snob, Sage and Luke! Look what happened to them!"

"He's right about that, at least," Sage spat in between bites of his frankfurter. "The Hole's got some kind of weird energy thing going on. It could mean trouble."

"The point is that something is going on out there," The Critic continued. "Ma-Ti is alive, and he's inside the Hole. And for once in our lives—for once in _my_ life—I have a chance to actually account for one of my mistakes. I have a chance to actually _do_ something right!"

For some reason, this time the rousting speech wasn't working. The others, it seemed, had finally had enough. They didn't perk up, or smile, or even react to The Critic in any way. They just stared at him, their faces a mixture of fury, pity and revulsion, a mixture which said "you're done fucking with us". They weren't going to help him. Not this time.

"Please… I'm… I'm begging you, here," The Critic asked, his voice inching ever closer to the pleading tone which he'd tried so hard throughout his life not to stoop to. The others, sensing genuine emotion from The Critic instead of more disingenuous BS, began to ponder his motivations. Could he really, genuinely be asking for their help?

"Well… It would be good of us to help out our fellow reviewer," Jesu said, breaking the silence. "But then again, maybe I'm still high on winning that car…"

The others began to murmur and nod in agreement.

"And if The Critic's right—by some ungodly chance—and the world goes down the _toilette_, then that means there'll be no one left to watch our reviews," Sad Panda added.

The others agreed even louder this time. No world meant no audience, and no jobs, and no jobs that allowed them to work from home making silly videos. Even if they hated The Critic, they couldn't let their hatred drag everyone else down with him.

"And then there'll be nothing left to criticize!" Sage chimed in, horrified at the mere thought of a world without bitching, nitpicking or over-analysis in it. The others agreed even harder.

"And then we won't get paid!" Film Brain cried finally. The others gasped.

"That's the borderline sociopathic spirit!" The Critic shouted. He turned to Linkara, who had been eerily silent the entire time. "Whatdya say, Linkara? Are you ready to blast off for some self-interested glory?"

Linkara said nothing for a moment, instead choosing to flex his leather-gloved hands in a show of… intimidation? Boredom? Whatever. Finally, a thin smile spread over his face, and he said:

**[Risk assessment analysis indicates the probability of your success in this venture to be minimal, ensuring your complete failure and my eventual victory. I acquiesce to this plan wholeheartedly.]**

The others stood momentarily dumbfounded by Linkara's suave yet ominous new voice. They applauded his eloquent denial of their greatness nonetheless, to his infinite chagrin. CR, in contrast, stood wondering if Lewis had a cold that made him sound like he was trapped in an echo chamber.

"Alright!" The Critic clapped his hands together. "So we've got everybody on board?"

"Not me," Phelous grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. "You may have everybody else fooled, Critic, but I'm too smart to fall for one of your schemes again."

"Oh come on!" The Critic whined. "Cinema Snob did this last year!"

"I still stand by it," The Snob agreed, stepping over to Phelous's "side". The others gathered around them in a semi-display of solidarity. "If you want us to saddle up with you this time, Critic, you're going to play by our rules. Either that or we walk."

"Why? What have I done that's so terrible?" The Critic asked.

"You became a crazy dictator nearly blew us all up with dynamite in Kickassia," Joe replied.

"I can't help it if I'm patriotic, Joe!"

"You committed mail fraud to get us to work for you finding the gauntlet," Lupa added.

"It's not mail fraud if they don't catch you!"

"You stole my homemade ice cream at ConBravo last year," Sage grumbled.

"Your ice cream is fucking delicious! What was I supposed to do?"

"The matter stands, Critic," The Snob said. "We're not agreeing to anything until we have an ironclad commitment between you and everyone else in this room that you won't be a jackass and do anything to us that we'll regret for the rest of our lives."

The Critic sighed. "Fine. We'll draw up a contract thingy later and have everyone sign it. Sound fair?"

"Sounds fair."

"Alright, now if we're going to do this, we're going to have to fight science fiction with science... science," The Critic said. "Those two doctors who were analyzing Spoony can tell us what's going on. Where are they?"

"Yeah, about that..." The Snob replied.

"They kind of got themselves arrested..." Sage cut in.

"By assaulting a federal agent..." The Snob continued.

"And a cop..." Sage added.

"Whose gun they stole..."

"And used against him..."

"To steal a squad car..."

"In exchange for..."

"A Good Humor ice cream truck..."

"Which they hightailed in to Tijuana..."

"Where they were picked up by the _federales_..."

"Dressed as nuns," Sage finished. "They're probably going to be in Mexican jail for _veinte_ to _veinticinco años_."

"Wow, that's quite a routine you two worked out there," The Critic commended.

"Thanks. We worked on it in the car," The Snob replied giddily.

"You did awesome," Luke brown-nosed.

"Well that's just great," Phelous sighed. "Does anyone else know a scientist batshit crazy enough to help us, or know what's going on?"

"...Say Critic, where'd you get that beaming device from, anyway?" Film Brain asked.

"Oh, this?" The Critic said. He'd completely forgotten about the teleporter, which he was now using as a footrest. "I stole it."

"From who?" Marzgurl asked.

"Some guy wearing a lab coat, green scrubs, and crazy swirly glasses," The Critic replied casually. Suddenly, he perked up. "Incidentally, I have a job for you guys."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Of note in this chapter is the final round of complaints from those The Critic has screwed over for the past three specials. I consider Phelous and The Snob to be the most self-interested of the group, so it makes sense for them to be the ones to ask The Critic for a contract. Look for a bit more of this subplot later.

The scene with Prick was tricky, considering I've cast him as a Congressman here, but since Prick and Terl are working for the same boss then it stands to reason that they would coordinate a bit. Terl provides "tactical support" in the form of some NSA agents and soldiers, Prick does the legwork. Simple.

Check back next week for one of _my_ favorite characters...

-Xoanon


	15. Part 2, Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Do You Believe in SCIENCE?**

_Our entire much-praised technological progress, and civilization generally, could be compared to an axe in the hand of a pathological criminal._

—Albert Einstein

* * *

Svalbard was cold. For a group of people who had just been beamed instantaneously from Chicagoland across nearly five thousand kilometers to Longyearbyen, a city that averaged a temperature of -3 degrees Celsius in May, it was cold. Even though they were standing inside an abandoned snack bar near the harbor which had been converted into a makeshift laboratory, it was cold. Even though the space heater plugged into the baseboard was running at full blast, even though most of them had on jackets and long sleeves, and even with the blankets taped over the holes in the walls and ceilings, it was still. Too. Fucking. Cold.

"Stupid Critic," Phelous grumbled, pulling his arms up into his shirt. "The second we get back, we're drawing up that contract."

"Relax, Phelous," Sage replied. "We just need to convince Dr. Insano to lend us a helping glove—or force him too—and then we'll be on our way."

Dr. Insano was standing in front of them, smirking haughtily, looking just as dastardly as ever, if not more so, in his trademark lab coat, green scrubs and stethoscope. His reddish-silver swirling goggles looked out at them with unblinking contempt. In one hand he held the remnants of a lawnmower engine pilfered from one of the nearby residences, in the other a notepad filled with demented scribblings. He hadn't said anything after shepherding them inside, instead choosing to sneer at them silently. It had been rather creepy for the first minute or so. Now it was just getting annoying.

_"So!"_ he cried suddenly, causing a few in the group to jump. "The critics have finally come home to roost, eh?"

"Uh... not really," Todd said. "We just need some—"

"Oh sure, sure! I know what you need from me!" Insano slammed the engine down on the lab table and stalked over to his impromptu kitchen, where some sort of power generator sat humming madly to provide his experiments with electricity. "Every time one of you monkey-brained idiots gets into a jam, it's always the same line! 'Oh help us, Dr. Insano! We need you to use your scientific expertise to help us save the Earth! We promise we won't deny your inherent greatness this time!' And when the time for gratitude rolls around? Whack! Pow! Off to the pokey with you, crazy! No more brainwashing children to accept your irradiated rutabagas! Intolerable dullards, the lot of you! What makes you think I want to help any of you in any way?"

"Oh come on, Insano," The Critic said. Having declined the trip because the teleportation process "made him woozy", his voice was instead projecting from the phone Phelous had brought along. "You know as well as I do that your ass is on the line. They have the news up there in Saladbar, don't they?"

"Of course they do!" Insano snarled. "Those blasted 'Chicago Orbs' are all the rabble on the streets can talk about! The same affected cities, the same victims! Though I'll admit hearing about that one that hit The White House gave me a little chuckle..."

"Then you know what's at stake here," The Critic replied. "If we don't stop this thing, then the entire world's going to be turned upside down!"

"Precisely! And that will make it all the more easy for me to take control!"

"Or it could turn you into a hippo's scrotum," Lupa pointed out.

"Good point," Insano conceded. "But I have a top-secret laboratory, completely impenetrable, and able to easily resist the orbs' deadly effects!"

At this, a blanket came loose from the ceiling. A large pile of snow flopped to the floor, accompanied by a biting Norse wind. The group shivered. Insano, fidgeting momentarily, swept the blanket to the side of the room. "Right, then!" he cried. "Concerning your problem:"

He turned to face his workbench and began crunching numbers on the cash register he'd repurposed into a calculator. "After many months of studying the Hole's energy emissions, I've finally figured it out! According to my calculations, there's only one explanation for what's going on here..."

"Great!" Joe said from the back. "So what's with all these anomalies, then?"

"The answer is quite clear," Insano announced. "We are dealing with..."

He turned around dramatically. _"A plot hole!"_

Hearing this, both CR and Mickey began snickering.

"What? What's so funny?" Insano asked indignantly. "Was it the delivery? Too over-the-top?"

"It's nothing," CR choked out. "Inside joke, you wouldn't get it."

"A plot hole?" Todd said, swatting The Chick from his side. "What do you mean 'a plot hole'?"

"It's the closest metaphor I could come up with to explain how the Hole works," Insano replied. "The Hole is basically a gigantic portal that shoots out nothing but inconsistencies and mistakes. Observe!"

He flicked on his projector. The room's lights darkened as the ancient Panasonic on the table hummed, a screen lowering on the opposite wall. A high-resolution image of the Hole appeared on it. Insano continued his narration as he clicked through an oddly well-prepared series of slides, each one of them boasting glorious high-resolution shots of the beast. Paw and the other members of his team muttered expletives in jealousy

"The Hole is one of the most powerful objects in existence—powerful enough to bend the entire universe to its will!" Insano said. "It can do whatever it wishes to whatever it wishes. It has no limits, no controlling factors, and no weaknesses other than that of its own making. To the Hole, right is wrong, and wrong is right! Forwards is backwards and backwards is forwards! It's a gateway to madness, totally out of control!"

The Critic listened, growing ever grimmer as Insano continued: "When matter comes into contact with the Hole's energies, it becomes randomized. Once that happens, anything that was impossible before contact suddenly becomes possible! Based on the Hole's energy release patterns, any outcome can occur! Anything can be made, remade or unmade with no consent given to the laws of physics, casuality or thermodynamics! It's basically an infinite granter of wishes like that bullshit Miracle Machine from _Final Crisis_. With its power, absolutely anything is possible!"

"But what started this? Where did this thing come from?" Paw asked.

"Right here!" Insano clicked his clicker, and the projector displayed another slide. This time, it was a picture of the battle between Malachite and Ma-Ti. The two were locked in their death-beam contest, the two energies slamming together in the center of that green field where Ma-Ti had perished not so long ago.

"Now, I may not be an expert on magic, like fatso over there…" Insano gestured to "Linkara", who was slowly losing his resistance against the urge to rip the scientist's head off in front of so many witnesses. "But from what I can gather, when the residual lodestone energy of Ma-Ti's ring collided with the magical energy streaming from Malachite's Hand, the resulting explosion created a quasi-plausible flux. This flux eventually grew strong enough to break a hole in the space-time continuum. Picture it as an inconsistency in a story arc, a little niggling something that breaks your suspension of disbelief for just a moment. That's the Hole."

"And the orbs?" The Critic asked.

"Pockets of bedlam, little dribbling shuttles of inconsistency derived from the mothership," Insano explained. "These inconsistencies aren't just those big honking purple streamers we've seen in the papers. Some of them are quite subtle, slipping neatly into places where nobody would notice them—an out-of-place sentence in a book here, a misplaced building there, and nobody gets wise. They're subtle, yes, and very virulent..."

Sage smacked his forehead. "Well that would explain why none of us notice the painfully obvious inconsistencies all around us!" he cried. "I guess you've got your work cut out for you, Linkara!"

**[Indeed,] **Non-kara replied coldly.

The projector clicked off. "Yes, and its effects are farther reaching than the mere present," Insano continued. "The Hole's presence could also explain why Spoony managed to transform into _me_two years ago in Kickassia, even though we're obviously two completely different people!"

"I actually have a video on my theory about that," CR piped up.

"I've seen it. It's total bullshit."

"Wait, how could the Hole be affecting past events?" JewWario wondered. "The invasion of Molossia happened over two years ago."

"Oh, JewLuigi, you Semite simpleton," Insano scoffed. "Once again, you're not thinking forth-dimensionally! Time doesn't run in a straight line; it's more like a David Lynch movie. It's this wandering meandering thing that just goes in all directions at once. The timeline isn't just non-linear—it's non-existent! You could spend your entire existence hopping around it like you're from Tralfamadore, and by the end of it, if you're very lucky, you'll have seen some boobies and maybe some little people."

The Critic's head was swimming, and not just from the thought of seeing time ta-tas and the temporal equivalent of _Eraserhead _meeting _Slaughterhouse-Five_. To think that such an entity, one with the power to turn all of space-time on its head, was the final resting place of Ma-Ti was enough to set him on edge. He'd sent one of his closest friends into that chaotic maw to be altered into Hole-knew-what, and he'd done it willingly.

A chill passed through him. He wasn't sure if he was cold, or if something else was in the room with him. He spoke to Insano once again:

"Dr. Insano... what's inside the Hole?" he asked. "What lies through the gateway of madness?"

"I don't know," the bad doctor admitted. "But what I do know is if it isn't stopped soon, all logic and consistency will go right out the window! A concentrated dose of its energy would alter the Earth so radically it would never be allowed to recover! The sky could turn purple! Water could transubstantiate into gelatin! The ending to _Mass Effect 3_ won't make any goddamned sense! It'd be a paradise worthy of Eris!"

"But we've had continuity hiccups before," Luke countered. "What about that thing with the _Warrior_ comics, and The Entity?"

"All small potatoes compared to this," Insano mused. "As horrifying as its effects on reality were, the Ultimate Warrior's gibbering only amounted to a total negation of its power through apathy. As for the Entity, I suppose fugly here could answer for that." He turned to Linkara. "Well, fugly? Care to explain what you did to that overgrown computer glitch to make it turn tail and run?"

**[My databanks do not contain that information, but I can safely ascertain that the Entity has been fully terminated by Linkara. It is no longer a threat to the safety of the multiverse,] **Linkara said, fingers etched into a nearby table.

Insano nodded. "There. You see? Entity's gone, Warrior's defeated, and we're screwed. Any other mysteries of the universe you need cleared up for you?"

"Dr. Insano, if everything you've told us is true, then we don't have much time." Todd stepped forward, dragging an obstinately clingy Nostalgia Chick along with him. "We're the only ones who know about this thing aside from you, and we don't have a lot of scientific equipment on our side. Is there any chance we could borrow some of yours?" He swatted The Chick's encroaching hand away from his chest, to her dismay.

"Feh! You delinquents couldn't operate a potato peeler properly!" Insano hissed. "Besides, The Critic already stole from me once; trust me when I say I will never allow it to happen again! Just use my teleporter to launch your butts into space! Aim for Jupiter's orbit! Even if you miss, you'll still land in the shrieking nothingness of space!"

With that ultimatum given, Phelous turned to Sad Panda and nodded. Sad Panda stepped forward and put an arm around Insano, turning him around so he wouldn't be able to see the others going to work.

"Dr. Insano, I'm curious," he said. "What does any of this have to do with Ma-Ti and Spoony? And please, give the explanation that will make you talk the longest." He snapped his fingers, and the others put their hastily conceived Plan B into action.

"Well, that is one of the great mysteries, isn't it? I dare say, it may be the greatest and most important mystery that remains to be solved..." Insano replied, taking to his green chalkboard and the strange equation he'd scribbled down on it. At the end of a long string of numbers and calculations was a single summation: CERTAIN DEATH. "No one knows what joins these three seemingly separate things. But, if you figure out how Ma-Ti, Spoony, and the Hole are connected, and you may very well save the human race, if not the entire universe, from a force that spells the end of this world and everything we know and hold dear. Fail...

He looked up dramatically, adjusting his swirly goggles. "...and it will spell your _doom_," he finished, turning around. "So, if there's anything else I can help you wi—_OH SON OF A BITCH!_"

The lab was entirely barren. The reviewers had stripped it in less than a minute, and then sidled out the door triumphantly, loaded down with their ill-gotten gains. They'd taken everything; the reinforced metal clampers from the walls, the strange vials of chemicals from the racks near the projector, the odd series of containers with their many alloys, fluids and synthetic goops from the floor. Not a single artifact was spared, not a single experiment left un-pilfered or untouched. Insano threw his chalkboard to the floor, cursing.

"This is why I need mad scientist's insurance," he groaned, massaging his temples. "They even took the novelty slot machine? Who does that?"

Outside, the teleporter beam purred. Sixteen souls were going home.

* * *

"...and, under the powers and privileges vested in this charter, we the lackeys reserve the right to relieve The Nostalgia Critic of duty at any time for any reason, if said reason is to protect life, limb or whatever. Signed and dated this twentieth day of May, in the year two-thousand and twelve." The Snob slid the paper across the kitchen table to The Critic. "Sign, please." Most of the team members, minus the surviving members of the Space Exploration Committee, were seated around the table to watch the charter's signing. The Critic took the parchment, having read the whole thing and negotiated passionately on several of its points, and signed it without complaint.

"Alright, the charter's drawn up," he said, flipping it back to The Snob and glaring at Phelous. "Do we trust each other now, John Dick-cock?"

"I guess." Phelous was still cross about several of his amendments being stricken from the final document. "I still say we should've kept the clause that let us make him drink toilet water whenever we wanted."

"Hey, I thought it was pretty fair," Luke replied, cracking open a Mello-Yello in celebration. "At least we have veto power on his decisions now, not to mention the power of the purse, power to amend the charter..."

"Yeah, but The Critic still has the authority to lead us in battle," The Snob winced. "Major loophole there, if you ask me."

"But not without _our_ majority vote," Film Brain added.

"Big deal. He could still just pull a Lyndon Johnson and say he can conduct war without our approval."

"We could bitch about it until he stops doing it," Sage offered.

"What about judicial authority? Who'd we give that to?" Sad Panda asked.

**[Your pitiful musings on freedom and fairness are a waste of time,] **Linkara spat.** [Democracy has no place in the lives of machines. Either you are useful or you are scrapped. It is the most effective system, efficient and unbiased.]**

"Geez, somebody's grumpy tonight," Marzgurl said.

The discourse was interrupted by the return of the Space Exploration Committee from the living room, where they had gone to figure out what to do with the goods pilfered from Insano's hideout. Joe, Paw, CR and newest member JesuOtaku marched proudly into the kitchen, carrying with them a large roll of blue paper, as well as an easel which they set up near the door. As CR and Joe tried multiple times to keep the paper from rolling up on the easel, Paw and JO announced their findings to the assembled group.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Paw said. "After much deliberation, and a full assessment of the resources at our disposal, we have decided on a plan of action for our newly-formed astronomical organization, the Critical Space Exploration Team!"

"Have you decided on a different name too?" Sage hoped.

"Nope," Jesu said cheerily. "Now, for us to properly examine the anomaly..."

"The Paul Schuler Space-time Anomaly. Use the full name," Paw ordered.

"...we need a way to travel independently to the Hole without arousing any more suspicion from the government, and without violating The Critic's house arrest."

"So how are we going to do that?" Phelous asked incredulously.

"Simple." Paw turned to Joe and CR, who had finally managed to tack their paper to the easel. "Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I give you... our solution."

The four withdrew, allowing the others to gaze upon what had to be the weirdest looking spaceship any of them had ever seen. It was a blueprint of The Critic's house with two warp nacelles drawn onto the sides. Several different schematics had been etched into the machine-drawn plans, including locations for the engine-room, weapons bay, medbay, and other important components. At the bottom of the sheet, written in silver pencil, was the name of the ship:

_USS EXIT STRATEGY_

The Critic studied the design admiringly. "Nice name. You guys drew all this up?"

"Yep!" Jesu replied. "Well, they did, mostly. I supervised. I'm not really good with technical stuff..."

"JO came up with the name," Joe said. "And she figured out how many supplies we'd need for a two day trip. It's all right here." He showed the group their workbook, a swirling list of figures and calculations. Smiles spread across their faces as the numbers began to add up. it could happen. They could actually make a spaceship.

"It looks solid," Luke said. "Do we have everything we need?"

"All the stuff we took from Insano's place should get us up and running," CR replied. "Aside from extra provisions, we're good to go."

"How much time will it take?" The Snob asked.

"About a week, if we work nonstop," Paw said.

"Can we get started right now?" Film Brain asked excitedly.

"Well..."

Phelous, Luke, Lupa, Sage, The Snob, Film Brain, Marzgurl, JewWario, Sad Panda, Eight Bit Mickey, Todd, CR, Angry Joe, Jesu, Paw and The Chick all looked at The Critic. Even with their new democracy, it was still sort of up to him to make the final decision. It was his house they'd be remodeling, after all. The Critic sat in silence for a moment, pondering whether to retrofit his house into a super-cool, kickass spaceship and take his friends to go rescue his lost Indian man-boy from a plot hole out in Jupiter's orbit. It would be the greatest journey they would ever undertake in their lives, a journey far from home with little chance of return, a journey sure to be froth with peril, danger, and perhaps even sheer terror.

He looked up at them, and smiled.

"Make it so."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Don't expect the charter to come up again until we get into space. I just thought we needed a little more background for The Critic's transition.

From the way Doug and Rob filmed it, Insano's shack felt like it was in the middle of nowhere to me. I figured you can't get much more remote than Svalbard, or much more adequately defended from robots. It must've killed Mechakara to be that close to the one guy who could send him home without his prize...

Next time comes one of my favorite chapters: the montage of prose.

-Xoanon


	16. Part 2, Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Forming an ****_Exit Strategy_**

_Ah to build, to build!_

_That is the noblest of all the arts._

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

At the crack of dawn the next morning, the critics started work on what was to become the strangest spaceship ever assembled by human hands. Through the use of Paw's "assigning hat", which was just his normal hat stuffed full of ticket stubs with various jobs written on them, Paw and the Space Exploration Committee delegated crew assignments to the others, everyone except for Sad Panda, who dubbed himself "Chief French Guy" instead. Aside from some minor grumblings over denied do-overs and obvious favoritism, everyone was more or less content with the positions they'd been assigned to.

Well, mostly everyone.

After that, work on the _Exit Strategy_ quickly commenced, the Committee directing the majority of the work based on their crudely-drawn blueprints. The team divvied up into crews of twos and threes to work on each of the stories more efficiently. They had plenty of hard labor ahead of them. The house didn't need to be just renovated; it needed to be completely deconstructed, reinforced, and revamped in order for them not to explode into millions of chunks the second they left the atmosphere. In only one week, they had to make a genuine airtight, self-sufficient, particle-shielded, heavily armored space-fairing exploration machine. It was no easy task, but they were more than up to the challenge.

They started with the foundation. With powerful lasers, the lower-deck team of Joe, Sage and Luke cut away the earth underneath the basement's concrete floor. Then they smoothed down the remaining stalactites and sealed them over with hundreds of heat-resistant ceramic tiles, which would help them survive re-entry, if there was one. As they toiled, Phelous, The Snob, Marzgurl and Lupa all worked to set up the engineering quadrant inside the garage, future home of the warp core that would propel them to the stars. In the meantime, however, the core itself was just a metal cabinet filled with coils of wires connected to ducts running to the places on the outside walls where the engine nacelles would later be built. CR supervised the process, making sure nothing crucial was misplaced.

The crew also began to convert The Critic's "rumpus room" in the basement into the ship's bridge, installing rudimentary control components from Insano's cannibalized experiments in the wooden paneling. Strangely enough, The Critic hadn't objected to the invasion at all, not even when they chopped his pool table up to use as test fuel. For the most part he kept out of everyone's way, lending a hand when asked and then leaving quietly when finished to find work elsewhere. It was as if The Critic no longer existed in his whiny man-child form, and that he had been replaced by a pod person-like version of himself, one with more stoicism and patience. Most of the team liked it that way.

In the living room, The Chick, Linkara, and Film Brain knocked out the remaining splinters of glass in the row of windows there. The windows were then replaced with something Eight Bit Mickey had been unfortunate enough to stumble upon in the search through the ill-gotten goods, an odd, transparent liquid slop that was half rubber, half plastic. They replaced every window in the house with the material, putting their faith in the numerous stress tests Paw and Joe had conducted that it would be able to stop dust-sized particles traveling at thousands of kilometers per second. They'd concluded it was incredibly strong, flexible, and hearty enough to withstand being put in the microwave for thirty minutes. That meant it would do just fine.

Outside, JesuOtaku and CR ripped away aluminum siding from the walls and tore insulation from its hiding spots within them. The gutted insides they filled with radiation-absorbing foam, the siding they replaced with strips of convection-positive, titanium-alloy armor plating. On the roof, solar panels were erected to provide the ship with power. Paw took careful inventory of the supplies they'd pilfered, making sure there was nothing wasted in the construction and that whatever they couldn't use was recycled properly. In every room in the house (even the bathrooms) they installed communications relays so that crew members could be in contact with one another at all times. These relays were directed to the new "information hub" of the ship situated in the garage next to the core, an old Pentium that CR had souped up quite nicely.

Day one ended on a high note.

* * *

"What're you doing, CR?" Luke asked. He had just come out of the basement, laser pack on his back, beam director slung casually over one shoulder, covered from head to toe in rich brown earth. He and the others in the lower-deck team had almost finished cleaning out the basement; tomorrow they'd be setting up the "launchpad", the iron struts that would support the house until they blasted off. They would have to hope that the house wouldn't collapse into the newly-created sinkhole beneath it in the middle of the night, while they were sleeping. The creaking of the floorboards wasn't exactly reassuring.

CR, having already accomplished his mission of replacing the outside siding, was in the garage, his attention now directed toward the Critic's ailing Mazda. He rolled out from underneath its transmission. Like Luke, he was also dirty, covered in oily black patches from head to toe, and wearing a small grey felt crown for some reason. He stood up, kicking the skateboard away as he did so.

"Nothing important," he replied, wiping his hands with an already unsalvageable dishcloth. "I just thought that since we've got most of the warp core up and running, I could do something with these spare parts here."

He tapped the box next to him on the garage floor. It was labeled, in big block letters: TOP-SECRET HYPER-PROPULSION ENGINE SYSTEM – PROPERTY OF DR. INSANO. DO NOT STEAL.

"Hyper-propulsion system?" Luke said.

"Sure! Every spaceship needs a lifeboat." CR picked up a strange glowing cylinder from the box, inspected it, and tossed it away. "I figure if this thing can do at least a hundred MPH on Earth, it could travel at 300,000 miles a second in space."

"Did you ask The Critic if you could do this to his car?" Luke asked.

"He told me to do it," CR replied. "Sort of. He's been acting kinda weird lately."

"I know," Luke said. "He called me Ma-Ti yesterday when I talked to him, and this morning I saw him trying to put butter on his toast while it was in the toaster. It's like he's losing his mind."

"He's just nervous." CR stepped around to the car's bumper. "Once we get the ship online and head for the Hole he'll feel better. By the way, could you take a look at this decal? I think I might have gotten the eyes wrong."

Luke followed CR and turned to what he was pointing at. On the bumper of the car, next to a bumper sticker telling other drivers not to fuck with someone named Mara Wilson, was a strange metallic face colored a deep crimson with white accent lines, one which possessed eyes as old as time itself and twice as wise. Even though he was a young man, Luke understood what this symbol meant; it was the symbol of the Autobots, wise protectors of both Cybertron and the human race from the Decepticons and other evils of the galaxy.

"That's awesome," Luke said.

"Indeed it is," CR agreed.

* * *

It was the end of day three. The team was gathered around the television, now propped up on a set of milk crates in the corner, looking for something interesting to watch. The programming was slowly deteriorating. So far it they'd sat through three frantic, slightly panicked local news segments on the Orbs, reports of worldwide riots, blackouts in New York, Boston and LA, something about the Reichstag being set on fire, commercials for "Strange Away, from the makers of Energy Chips" and "Orb-B-Gone", Jon Stewart doing a sketch titled "Oh Holy F#*k We're All Going to Die", and now they were watching _NBC Nightly News_. Brian Williams wasn't reciting the news in person. He was hiding. He had been hiding for the past twenty-five minutes underneath his desk.

"American TV sucks," Sad Panda declared.

"Oh come on!" Sage shot back. "If you were in France right now and you turned on the tube, you'd see the exact same thing! Pants-shitting fear knows no culture!"

"At least we'd have slightly more dignity about it," Sad Panda snorted.

**[Pathetic humans,****] **Linkara spat.

"Is there anything else on? This is getting kind of uncomfortable," Film Brain said.

"There's supposed to be some roundtable debate on C-SPAN about the orbs' religious significance," CR offered.

"Forget it. We're not watching a debate between the Pope, Chief Rabbi Metzger, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Grand Ayatollah Aliari, the Dali Lama and the Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church with Richard Dawkins as moderator. It'd be too boring," Paw replied.

"We could watch a movie or something. C'mon guys, let's hear some ideas…"

"We haven't removed Critic's movie collection from the house yet," JewWario said.

There was a pause.

"No," everyone replied.

"Where is The Critic, anyway?" Joe asked.

"Upstairs. He said he wasn't feeling well. I think something's wrong with him," The Chick replied.

"He's just nervous," CR said, grabbing the remote away from Paw. He flipped the channel to C-SPAN. Dawkins was on top of his desk flipping the Pope and Dali Lama the double bird.

* * *

"Need some help?" Sage asked as Marzgurl came into the kitchen lugging a huge box. So far, the construction was going swimmingly. The foundation had been dug out and rebuilt into the launch pad, the bridge was nearing completion, and work had finally started on the warp nacelles. Sage, in order to avoid being sent up fifty feet in the air in a makeshift harness, had instead opted to help work on the internal systems. Already he'd managed to hook the sink up to the convoluted water recycling system CR and Paw had made out of the water softener. Now, he was helping himself to one of the beers in the fridge before stuffing the new oxygen condenser in the hall closet.

"No thanks," Marzgurl huffed, dragging the box to the pantry. "If you'd offered help seven boxes ago, I would have gladly accepted it."

Sage shrugged. "Sorry. I was setting up the water thingy. What's in the box anyway?"

"Rations." Marzgurl stood up and kicked the pantry door open. Inside were several similar-looking boxes, all of them with the same label: MRE.

"MRE?"

"Meals Ready-to-Eat," Marzgurl explained. "Your new favorite food; main course, side dish, and dessert vacuum-sealed in one convenient package. We're going to be out in space for two days, and I for one intend not to starve."

"Oh. So it's like Kid Cuisine," Sage said.

"Not that good," Marzgurl winced. "These are Army surplus."

Sage shrugged again. "Eh. Food's food."

* * *

By day five, the ship's innards began to take shape. As the rooms of the house were converted, Paw and Joe began to work more and more on getting the engines ready for blastoff. Most of their waking time was now spent calibrating and recalibrating the core, testing the bleed chutes for exhaust, and wrapping the nacelles in more duct tape. In the above stories, The Critic was slowly going through his rooms, discarding dead weight. By Paw's calculations there was still a lot of excess weight to dump, and even though he'd already managed to store most of his stuff in the backyard shed, there were some things that simply wouldn't fit. He held a box in his hands. It was full of some of the various costumes that had once been in his closet. He was taking them to a place he would most likely never enter again. They would only be there until tonight.

He stopped at a door in the hallway. The room beyond it had once been a small guest bedroom before he'd moved in. Now, it was the only room in the house that he could consistently say he loathed entering. It was his shit-shoveling room, the one where he'd shot his videos before the Hole had set its sights on him. He hadn't released a video on the site in weeks. His "fans" were probably pissed. It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside. Everything in the room was still the same. The table sat underneath a white cloth, gathering dust. He could get rid of that, he thought. He scanned the room thoroughly. Boxes of trinkets, gewgaws and other assorted craplets were piled high in every corner, all the props and costumes he'd accumulated. He could get rid of those too. There were two other boxes of clothes he'd piled in the middle of the floor, one on top of the other. They could go too. All of it could go.

Then, he saw a flash of crimson sticking out from underneath of one of them. Instinctively, he knew what it was. He knelt down and pulled the box out from the stack. Inside it were the tatters of his once-great N. Bison uniform. It couldn't really be considered clothing anymore. The moths had taken their toll on it, and it had been damaged further in the confrontation with the police during the "Criticland" debacle, reducing it to barely more than a bundle of mesh rags. Nevertheless, he took it out to stare at it one last time.

He sat there for a long while, looking at it, turning it over in his hands. It had been a part of his dream, something he'd strived for, that had truly meant something to him once upon a time. He didn't know what his dream was now, but it had to be something more than being a tin pot dictator in a desert wasteland. It had to be something better. He hoped to whatever was out there, to whoever was in charge of the meaningless, heartless, pointlessly cruel shitheap of a universe he endured, that it was something better.

There was a knock at the door. He jumped.

"Critic? You in there?" It was The Cinema Snob. The Critic shoved the uniform back into the box hastily. He stepped to the door and opened it, sliding out of the room like a cat, taking great care to keep the room's contents from The Snob's discerning eye.

"Uh, hey, Cinema Snob," he said calmly. "I was just going around checking for stuff to get rid of. There's nothing in there." He winced, hoping he wasn't coming off as too phony. There wasn't much hope. He always came off as too phony in normal situations.

"Great," The Snob replied casually. "Anyway, we were all going to go out for pizza. You want to come with?"

"I can't." The Critic tapped his anklet.

"Oh, right. Sorry. I guess we can bring a pie back for you."

"But... you guys would want me to come?"

"Sure," The Snob smiled. It wasn't his usual smile, the one that was full of _schadenfreude _and barely-concealed resentment. "I mean, it's the best way we can make it up to you for messing up your house. Not to mention you've been less of an asswipe than usual lately. A little nutty, sure, but it's an improvement."

The Critic smiled weakly, and shrugged. "Thanks."

"No problem." The Snob walked off, leaving The Critic his room of shame alone once more.

* * *

Across the street, in front of the decaying remains of the gingerbread home, there stood a nondescript white truck. It had been there since day one. It had been recording everything that had been happening with the house across the street through high-def cameras, relaying that information daily to the NSA. The man retrieving the data it gave him was now forming a plan. He ordered the van to keep watching. He needed to see their every move in order to thwart their nefarious plan. They wouldn't get away that easily…

* * *

On day seven the house was not a house. It was now the _USS Exit Strategy_, the ship that would take The Critic and his allies to the Hole. The entire team stood assembled in the bridge/basement, proudly assessing their work while blinded by pride and rapidly expanding egos.

"In all my years of living, I have never seen a prouder spaceship," Joe said, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of one eye.

"It makes me vomitous with loathing, to say the least," Sad Panda replied, working the newly-installed "super scanner", a microscope hotwired into the ship's sensor systems that would analyze any object, no matter how big or dumb.

"It's more than just vomitous, it's awesome," Marzgurl said, adjusting the plaque with the ship's name on it over the captain's chair, the heart of the ship's controls. It was still slightly crooked even after her attempt at straightening it. It read, in gilded letters: _USS EXIT STRATEGY — TO BOLDLY FLEE WHERE NO ONE HAS FLED BEFORE_.

"_We're_ awesome," CR said. "I still think we should've used a Kinect for the drive system, though."

"Trust me, CR, I know how to handle a WiiMote," JewWario assured cooly, flipping the plastic wand back and forth between his fingers. Paw stepped to the front of the group and stood in front of the instrument panel cobbled together from various transistors, keyboards and sound equipment, ready to give the team its first briefing.

"Alright people, now that we've got the ship built, the hard part begins," he said. He was now wearing headphones with pointed ears. "We're blasting off tomorrow, so that means everyone need to get a good night's sleep tonight. Liftoff is at eight o'clock sharp. Your sleeping orders have been relayed to Captain Cinema Snob. If you have any questions or problems, talk to him."

"I have one," Phelous groused, turning to The Snob indignantly. "Who the heck made you captain?"

"The Critic," The Snob replied proudly. "Well, he actually made me co-captain, but it still counts."

"When did he do that?"

"Two days ago. You were upstairs helping Joe modify the toilets to run on vacuum power."

"Why!?"

"I dunno. He said he wanted to make it up to me."

"I don't believe this!"

"Oh relax, he made you my first mate."

"Oh, I'm sooooo grateful…"

"Glad we've got that sorted out, ladies. Group dismissed." Paw headed for the basement stairs. "If anyone needs me, I'll be on my computer for the next six hours."

"Doing what?" Marzgurl asked.

"Making the voyage's mixtape!" Paw replied. "Duh!"

* * *

It was nearly midnight when The Critic slipped out the back door. The anklet allowed him to move around the backyard, so long as he stayed within fifty feet of the house. Fifty feet was all he needed. He brought with him the boxes of clothes from his closet, and the table from the back room, piling them next to a hole he'd dug in the ground earlier. Working quietly, he took an axe and cut the table into thin pieces. He then set the pieces up into a bonfire.

He'd called Rob earlier. Rob hadn't been home. He'd left a message on the answering machine, telling him to take care of the lawn every now and again, and not to tell Mom that he was leaving. He hadn't said much, only that he was "going to find some things out". Rob hadn't asked about many of The Critic's dealings in the past. He hadn't asked the coma, the suicide attempt, the evil teddy bear attack, the other suicide attempt, or even the doctor clown guy he'd shot a few weeks ago. He had always been there, willing and able to help with whatever mess his dumb little brother had gotten himself into. He wouldn't question this.

The bonfire rose. The Critic put down his axe and turned to the first box. He fed its contents into the flames. He did the same thing with the second and third boxes. Everything his room and closet had once contained, all the costumes and props and recordings and memories, was incinerated, the various materials sending up great puffs of smoke as they burned. No one would care about or even see them. The block was half-deserted by now, and he was the only one who was still awake.

The last item he pulled out was the tattered Kickassian uniform and cap. Without hesitation, he fed them into the fire too, watching as the brass insignia of the cap melted onto the wood. He then gazed up into the nighttime sky, at the thin stars twinkling in the blackness. It was a cold night. It didn't matter. He was free.

_There, _he thought, _it's done. Clean break. I'm not coming back here. I'm never coming back. I'm going to go to the Hole, and there I'll find what's calling me, finally find where it is I truly belong. I'm not coming back. It's time._

_I'm ready._

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Regarding the location of The Critic's "shit-shoveling" room: I always figured he had it hidden away someplace. I'm aware it's right next to Doug's editing bay in real life, but for the sake of drama, let's just assume he has a spare bedroom he films in instead.

I really like how this chapter turned out. Montages always need the most detail in prose, and I think I did a good job of capturing just how much work would go into making your own spaceship. The interplay between the team is always good to add too, because it strengthens the story a little more.

On Friday: liftoff.

EDIT: Thanks to ddigimon for catching the error with The Critic leaving the house to get pizza. "Plot hole" or not, that's too big an error to ignore.

-Xoanon


	17. Part 2, Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: The Launch**

_Come away on a strange vacation_

_Holiday hardly begun…_

* * *

It was morning. The _USS Exit Strategy _stood serenely in the golden sunlight. Inside it, a bustling crew of eighteen had been awake for hours, the clock slowly ticking down the ever-long seconds leading up to the big moment. The engines had been tested, launch prerequisites had been run through concisely, the ship's guidance and life support systems checked and double-checked. The ship's warp core was busy heating up coffee. It was almost zero hour, 8:00 AM. They were going to be high as kites very, very soon.

"Alrighty righty right, it's 7:50! Seventy-five-oh! Seven five-tee! Holy shit is this amazing!" The Critic, having already shot himself up with a dozen mocacchinos at 2:00 in the morning, was twitching with anticipation in the captain's seat. Around him, his barely lucid starship crew, the brave men and women who were following him into space, yawned and struggled to stay awake. The Critic slapped his hands on the seat's armrests in frenzy. "C'mon, let's get moving, people!" he exclaimed. "Jupiter ain't gonna probe itself!"

"Patience, Critic," Paw replied, stepping up to him mechanically. He was still wearing his Vulcan ears. "Logic dictates that we must move cautiously, and follow all necessary protocols in order for the ship to have a safe launch. We will leave at eight o' clock as planned."

The Critic scoffed. "You're such a geek."

"I find that statement illogical."

"And that's why you're un-dateable," The Critic shot back. He turned to gaze at the ship's viewscreen, the cobbled-together remnants of his flatscreen TV, microwave, and toaster. "By God!" he marveled. "With a ship like this at my command and a crew like you guys to dispose of—"

"Don't you mean 'at your disposal'?" Marzgurl corrected.

"Oh yeah, right," The Critic replied. "With a ship like this at my command and a crew like you at my disposal, we're off to a great start! Nothing can stop us!"

* * *

At that very moment, something was coming to stop them.

It was a tasteful, sinister-looking something on four black-walled wheels, with Illinois tax-exempt license plates and a Dodge emblem on its hood. Silently, it coasted into the driveway of the former house, stopping just short of the former garage. Inside it there were three people: a representative of the United States Congress-turned ersatz NSA agent, and two of his companions, also from the NSA. Lame R. Prick had come to stop the launch. He got out of the car quickly, the two agents doing the same, mimicking his movements exactly.

Prick stepped up to the garage determinedly. The deserted neighborhood was quiet, but in his ears there was a faint humming sound. It was either the sound of their gigantic, 120,000 megajoule per hour fusion-generated den of copyright-less depravity located somewhere beyond that door, or a particularly large bee. Prick wasn't really sure. He turned to his thugs. "Is this the place?" he asked.

The two agents looked up at the large engine nacelles protruding out from the sides of the house, then back at Prick. "Yes, sir," they said.

"Good work, gentlemen. We'll make short work of these miscreants. With any luck, we'll be back in Washington in time for supper and medals from the president. Follow me."

* * *

The Critic pressed a button on the intercom. Instantaneously, the ship's relay system patched him through to CR's station in the engine room. "How're we doing down there, Chief Engineer?" he asked.

"The adaptive interface link is online, the impulse power is nominal, and the gravitronic-positronic generator is about to reach its efficiency peak," CR replied.

"What?"

"We can go in about five minutes," CR grumbled. "Simpleton."

The Critic looked at his watch. It was 7:55. They were right on schedule. "Excellent! Assume blastoff positions, people! Let's get ready to launch!"

"Uh, Critic?" Marzgurl turned to The Critic from her position at the ship's security console. "There appear to be some very angry men hammering on the front door upstairs."

"Jehovah's Witnesses?"

"Angrier." She pressed a couple keys, and the upstairs remote feed appeared on the viewscreen. The Critic leaned forward to get a better look. There _were_ three angry men in suits at the front door, one of them pounding with gusto on the newly steel-reinforced wood. The security equipment labeled them as GOVT. DOUCHES.

"Crap, we're not ready to go yet." The Critic turned to Eight Bit Mickey. "Mickey, get upstairs and stall 'em!"

Mickey turned to The Critic, a steely look in his mustache. "With pleasure, sir."

* * *

After three fruitless minutes of hammering on the door, Prick finally got the bright idea to check around the back for an alternate route into the house—or he would have if he wasn't a few voters short of a full constituency. Instead, he turned to his old standby:

"Knock this down." He gestured at the door. "Knock this all down."

"We don't have a battering ram, sir," the agent to his right responded.

"Use your foot," Prick grumbled.

"In these shoes?" the agent huffed. "These are Johnson and Murphy Venetian."

"I don't give a shit if you're wearing Jimmy fucking Choos!" Prick snarled. "There are lawbreakers in this building, and it is your job to apprehend them!"

"We should've called for backup on this," the agent on his left said.

"Shut up! Go check the back," Prick finally ordered. The two agents complied, shuffling off placidly. He still kept hammering on the front door.

* * *

The team inside was working at a fevered pitch now. The Snob and Luke were running calculations on the ship's computers for the launch trajectory, Marzgurl was reconfiguring the security codes for the outer doors, and Mickey was upstairs preparing for what was to be his finest costumed antic. He was now dressed in a black suit and tie and wearing sunglasses. He jetted to the back door, where he waited patiently for the government agents to come around and open it. He heard them grumbling as they came closer:

_"Man, this guy's a prick."_

_"I know. I'm just working with him for the extra benefits. Got a family to feed, y'know?"_

_"Sorry to hear that, man. At least I get reassigned to Syria after this."_

_"Thanks. Hey, these guys have a bonfire last night?"_

_"I guess so. Jesus, there's soot everywhere."_

_"Here's the back." _

There was a rap on the door. Mickey opened it. The two agents stared back at him.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. This area's off-limits," he said dryly.

The agents were undaunted. "On whose orders?"

"Section 6."

"We're Section 6."

"Then you should know."

"What district are you from?"

"District 9."

"That's a movie?"

"12."

"That's Zimbabwe."

"Your point?"

"So you're a white man with an Italian Jew-fro living in the African jungle?"

"You racist, son?"

"Sir, get out of the way. We've got a job to do."

"Look, look, gentlemen:" Mickey reached for something in his suit pocket. "All your questions will be answered if you look right here." He withdrew a silver thing from his coat, held it out in front of him, and pressed a button on it. It started to rattle back and forth in his hand.

"That's a vibrator," one of the agents said.

Mickey threw the vibrator at the two agents. It was enough to distract them from the single haymaker he threw next. The two fell to the ground, unconscious.

"Goat-fuckers," he tsked. Why were his enemies always so easily defeated? He was still wondering that less than a second later when he was being held at gunpoint by Prick, who, having suddenly grown a brain, decided to sneak around back and infiltrate the house from there. He stuck the barrel of his prized Glock 17 right in Mickey's face.

"Holyshitthatsagun," Mickey spat.

"Now listen here, punk," Prick sneered, fully lost in _Dirty Harry_ mode. "I am a duly designated representative of the National Security Agency. We're here to shut you and your little illegal operation down. With one phone call, I can have you put on ice indefinitely along with your hippie-headed friend for resisting arrest. So you have a choice to make here: you can either come quietly with us, or you can fight. What's it going to be, munchkin?"

"Whoa, woah," Mickey replied. "I-I'm sorry, pal, what did you just call me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Prick continued, stepping forward. At roughly six feet tall, he towered over the five-ish foot Mickey. "What's the matter? You can't _hear _me all the way down there?"

Mickey took off his glasses, trying to remain calm. "Listen…" he said, in a calm but strained, don't-make-the-Hulk-angry kind of voice. "That's two height jokes you've just cracked. Now, that might be funny to you, and that's alright. But around me? I wouldn't go for the height joke."

Prick stooped to stare Mickey directly in the eye. "Oh, what's the matter, little man? Is somebody insecure about his height?" he asked cloyingly. "Perhaps I should get you a booster seat and a Happy Meal. Would that make you feel better? Hmm?"

"I really… wouldn't keep saying… such things… if I were you…" Mickey was now convulsing, his face growing redder and redder. Prick was still undaunted.

"Yes," he hissed, his voice now nearer to a whisper than anything else. "Or maybe… juuuust maybe…" He leaned in, and put his left hand right in Mickey's face. "You should talk to the hand, because the head all the way up hear can't hear you, and isn't fucking listening."

He leaned in further. "Got it, shrimp?"

Mickey said nothing else. He only acted.

* * *

"What the hell is taking him so long?" The Critic huffed. It was now 7:58. They had two minutes until they were to be roaring through the atmosphere, and he sure as space-shit wasn't going to be delayed because of Mickey's incompetence. Luckily, he had nothing to worry about, as just then Mickey walked back onto the bridge, half-dressed and covered in a viscous red substance. He was holding something resembling a pink tree branch in one hand.

"Okay, guys," he said, flashing them a big smile from his ichor-covered face. "I've just found out something way important from our little interlopers. Apparently, Spoony's not on Earth anymore; he's at a top-secret government base on Europa. I think. That was the last thing Prick's asshole head said before I shoved it in a fucking wood chipper. Anyways, we should be able to catch up to him if we leave now, so… let's go!"

He stumbled to the back of the bridge to clean up, the rest of the crew looking after him in complete shock. On the back of his white shirt was the message HELP M in red letters. He gave the arm to Paw in the high-five he offered. Paw shrieked and threw it across the room in terror.

"Looks like somebody called him short again," The Snob whispered to The Critic. "Terrific. Another wood chipper death I didn't get to see."

"We'll deal with it later," The Critic replied. "Prepare for launch, co-captain!"

"Aye aye, sir." The Snob turned back to his post. Phelous grumbled something nasty from the stairwell. The Critic pressed the intercom button on his chair again.

"Engineering, take us up," he commanded.

"Aye, captain," CR replied.

* * *

In engineering, CR motioned to Joe. "Ensign, give us 150 CC power and prepare for quarter impulse speed."

"Aye, sir." Joe turned to the warp core of the starship and picked up a canister of fuel, the "mushroom caps" he and Paw had ingeniously devised. Even despite the paucity of dilithium crystals on the market, Insano had still managed to invent a fuel that was ten times as efficient as gasoline and burned for twice as long. They'd stored it in cylindrical containers which fed directly into the core. Joe pressed one into place. There was a wonderful "bwoop-bwoop-_bwoop_" noise as the engines powered up for the first time. The crew felt the struts begin to buckle underneath them. Outside, the entire frame of the ship shuddered. It was 8:00 AM. Liftoff was happening.

"I don't know, Critic," The Chick said. "Doesn't this technically violate your house arrest?"

The Critic turned to her with a sly smile.

"Why? I'm not leaving the house," he replied. "JewWario, quarter impulse!"

"Aye, sir, quarter impulse." JewWario sat in front of The Critic on a small pillow, steering the ship with his WiiMote. The ship's navigating boosters would rise and fall with his motions, and responded immediately to his every twist and turn of the wheel. Very gently, he brought the wheel up to chest height. The house rose with it, knocking down the carefully constructed maze of pylons beneath the foundations. It hovered an inch off the ground at first, until JewWario brought the wheel up further. The house began to fly. They were off.

Outside, the remaining denizens of the neighborhood looked on in awe as the aloft house began to turn slowly toward the southwest. From an upstairs portico, Joe poked his head out, laughing gaily at the dumbfounded onlookers below.

"WE'RE GONNA SAVE THE EARTH, BITCHES! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" He was pulled back inside by Marzgurl, who then slid the portico shut, its vacuum seals relocking immediately. The ship's warp nacelles kicked in. Blue bolts of energy crackled at their centers, evolving into a healthy glow as the power flowed freely into them. They drifted forward, gaining speed more rapidly as they went, until they were flying over the suburbs of Chicago. They sped past the city center, waving goodbye to the skyline as they went, climbing into the upper troposphere and leaving the Earth's surly bonds behind.

"Activate deflector screens," The Critic ordered. The Snob complied, working the corresponding controls. A series of panels slid back on the ship's exterior, revealing slotted projectors for the ray shielding that would protect the ship from damage and excess ionization. A clear, slightly green-tinged web of beams streamed from them.

"Deflector screens at maximum power, sir," The Snob reported.

"Excellent. Status of our critical systems?"

"Life support, weapons and power systems optimal, sir," Luke added.

"Excellent!" The Critic turned the viewscreen on again. At once, the cameras in the ship's nose activated, and a crystal clear picture of the rushing sky sprang into view. The clouds ahead leaped and bounded as the ship traversed them at 1/32nd the speed of light, the sky itself fading from blue to dark blue to black as they climbed higher and higher into the stratosphere. The air fell away, the gravity became less and less. Things began to float.

"Experiencing gravitational imbalance, sir," The Snob said, glasses attempting to escape his face.

"Yes," The Critic mused. "We're floating in the most peculiar way."

"I know. Want to do something about it?"

"Engineering, engage artificial gravity for Mr. Crankypants."

"Aye, captain. Engaging gravitational centrifugation system."

"What?"

"The big centrifuge thingy," CR sighed. It was this rapidly spinning device that would generate a gravitational field for the ship roughly equal to Earth's for the entire voyage. In this way, their predicament would not be like that of the ISS's astronauts, or the souls onboard the _Axiom_; their bodies would receive the same workout they did on the planet's surface, thereby preventing any decay in their bones and muscles. For a group of mostly sedentary nerds with no fitness training, it was a pure godsend.

The ship climbed higher, and higher, until finally the sky outside the ship faded to a pure black. It was no longer sky. It was space. The _Exit Strategy_ was now in orbit around the Earth.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **R.I.P. Lame R. Prick, 1977-2012. He really shouldn't have made those height jokes.

I realized a little too late that it doesn't make much sense for the agents to be mind controlled, considering they object to Prick's orders in this scene. I know you could just chalk it up to "plot hole" interference, but I don't like being lazy. Let's just say they're being paid handsomely by Terl for their work and leave it at that.

-Xoanon


	18. Part 2, Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: There Is Another**

_In the endless reaches of the universe, there once existed a planet known as Krypton, a planet that burned like a green star in the distant heavens. There, civilization was far advanced and it brought forth a race of supermen, whose mental and physical powers were developed to the absolute peak of human perfection. _

—Superman, "The Mad Scientist"

* * *

"Congratulations, all," The Critic said proudly. "We did it. We've made it into space."

"SPAAAAAAAAAAA—"

"Make that_ Portal 2_ reference and you die," Marzgurl warned JewWario. JewWario hung his head, accidentally dropping the ship a few thousand meters back toward the planet's surface.

"Buck up, steer-man," The Critic ordered, clapping his friend on the back. "We've got a few million or so leagues ahead of us; there's bound to be a reference or two out there. Now set a course for Jupiter!"

"Aye, aye!" JewWario thrust the wheel away from him. The ship shot forward at full impulse, 1/4th lightspeed. Jupiter was over nine hundred thousand kilometers away. At their current rate the trip would take them roughly two and a half days.

"Yeah, sure, pop culture references are all well and good," Paw said dismissively. "But in the meantime, I cooked up something we all can enjoy: a little travelling music!"

He plopped his newly burned CD ("Awesomesauce1") into the disc drive of his console's stereo system. Almost immediately, a strange murmuring voice began to vibrate out through every speaker in the ship, accompanied by a heavy base guitar plucking along with its rhythm. and Paw grabbed a microphone nearby, plugged it into a nearby jack, and began to announce the day's DJ agenda.

"Goooooood morning, crew of the _USS Exit Strategy_!" he said. "This is your shock jock Paw Dugan, bringing you all your favorite classic rock, hard rock, prog rock, rock rock and heavy metal hits nonstop from here to Europa! Over forty-eight hours of continuous musical epicness!"

"Forty-eight hours?" Marzgurl groaned.

"Nonstop?" The Critic said, eye twitching. The baseline grew louder, and a series of staccato, Morse code-like bleeps joined in. A thumping descending drum solo began to play. The song was "Astronomy Domine", by Pink Floyd.

"Sit back," Paw said coolly, "and enjoy your starship ride..."

* * *

"Ah, sir?" an ensign said, turning to Terl seated in his captain's chair. "We've just lost contact with The Critic's tracking signal. He's no longer on planet Earth."

_"Impossible!" _Terl whirled around. _"Make contact with Prick! Put him onscreen! He's supposed to be in charge of watching that whelp!" _

"We lost contact with him shortly before losing The Critic."

_"What!? Why the hell didn't you tell me?"_

"You asked not to be disturbed during your gloating sessions, sir."

_"I already told you, gloating is from three to five!" _Terl shouted, turning to his viewscreen. _"Patch me through to Prick's communicator! He's got a lot to answer for!"_

"Yes, sir." The ensign punched in the data coordinates on the keyboard. The video communicator Terl had given to Prick turned on, and Prick's head filled the screen. Or at least what was once Prick's head filled the screen. Terl, at first having no idea what he was looking at, squinted at the gruesome picture. After a moment he recoiled in horror. His ensigns did the same thing.

_"Oh, sweet Mammon! Take it off-screen!" _he cried. The ensign complied, and the horrific, half-pulped face of Prick disappeared from view. _"Those critics are monsters!"_

"What should we do with him, sir?" the ensign asked, trying to keep breakfast down in the process.

_"Beam his remains to the hold. They'll probably be able to fix him up at the lab on Europa. Nothing's over so long as we've got his DNA!" _Terl turned to the rest of his bridge crew. _"The rest of you get to your monitoring stations! We must not let The Critic slip by us unimpeded! Keep your eyes on every single one of our radars, every satellite in orbit, every last piece of space junk! He is not—I repeat, not—going to escape me this time! Nothing gets past my cunning eye, not one blasted thing! I swear, by all my dead brothers, that the icy hand of Terl will—" _

"Sir?"

_"What?"_

"Look behind you."

Terl did. The viewscreen had reverted to its transparent form again, allowing a view outside the bridge of the ship. A small spaceship looking somewhat like a house darted in front of the ship's nose. It turned away, gaining speed ever quicker until it became nothing but a speck amongst the star-studded vista of space, and then it was gone. Terl looked after it, utterly speechless.

_"Alright…" _he choked out, after a long time._ "That's… a bit of a setback… But, we have The Critic's bearings… we know where his ship is going… so we can easily follow him… Nobody has to know about this, especially not—"_

A message suddenly came through to the ensign operating the telecommunications panel. He listened into it for a moment, then went rigid with fear and turned to his commander. "Sir… i-it's The Executor," he stammered. "He'd like a word with you."

Terl's entire body clenched. _"Is it… a good word?" _

"I don't think so, sir."

Terl, keeping every effort to remain calm even though his stomach had turned into a blender with blades set on frappe, took a deep breath and turned away from the cruel emptiness of the cosmos. _"Alright… not to worry… we can get through this… just because he's calling now, doesn't mean he knows about The Critic escaping, or Prick being dead. We just have to… play things cool, that's all…" _

Very slowly, he began to stumble across the bridge to the main corridor. _"Carry on! Carry on!"_ he cried, making little progress in getting his legs to work properly again. He made it off the bridge in about fifty steps.

* * *

The Executor's shrouded face was a blue thunderstorm towering over the submissive Terl. Terl had taken the call after pacing back and forth outside his office for about two hours, wringing his hands and cursing The Critic's name a thousand times. The Executor hadn't said a single word so far, instead choosing to frown at Terl as if the mere dissatisfaction present in his face could cause his apprentice's head to explode miraculously in a font of gore. Terl, having been relatively calm and collected when he'd entered the room, was now too terrified to say much of anything.

The Executor shifted slightly. Terl moved to stop his hand, which had been nervously tapping the ground the whole time. He knew, Terl thought. He had to know. He wouldn't be doing this if he didn't know. He was so going to get demoted for this.

Finally, the dark lord opened his mouth to speak:

_[Critics gone.] _Terl's soul imploded. It wasn't a question, merely a condemnation of abject failure. Terl answered it anyway.

_"Um… hm…" _he squeaked in the semi-affirmative.

_[Prick dead.] _He continued, either referring to the recently deceased Lame R. Prick or the status of Terl's masculinity under his withering gaze.

_"Well, not exact—yeah."_

_[You, pissing yourself with fear.]_

_"Definitely," _Terl mewed. He was now a single spot of jelly on the floor.

_[Good. May the dampness may teach you a valuable lesson, my apprentice.] _The Executor took up a more collegial tone, though his words remained sharp. _[Now, if you would enlighten me, explain why you allowed The Critic and his allies to escape your custody?]_

_"Well… I suppose you could place half the failure on Prick for getting himself caught in a wood chipper, maybe?" _Terl began gingerly. "_A-and it was Prick's job to monitor the critics' activity and report it back to me. If anything, he's to blame for this mess!"_

_[Prick was merely a stooge in our production, not a player,] _The Executor dismissed_. [The Critic was your responsibility. Your task was to keep him from leaving Earth, from trying to discover the secret of the Hole, and on both these accounts you have failed.] _

_"But… my liege," _Terl continued, _"even in spite of… Prick's failure, this is nothing more than a minor setback in our plans, can it? What can such a disorganized group of slovenly nerds possibly do to us?"_

_[One broken link, my apprentice_,_] _The Executor replied. _[The Critic was not a factor in my original plan. He was to be kept cowed, immobilized on Earth, so that we would be permitted to complete our final task unimpeded. He was not meant to escape.]_

_"So… I messed up—Prick messed up, I mean?" _Terl replied

_[You had it right initially,] _The Executor said curtly. _[But all is not lost. It is a good thing that I managed to foresee this error of yours, so that it may be swiftly corrected. But rest assured, Terl, you have failed me for the last time…]_

_"Okay, if we're doing _Empire_ now, that's definitely my line,"_ Terl cut in.

_[Be silent.] _Terl curled up into an even tighter ball on the floor. _[I see now that I have been too lenient with you, my apprentice. The plan cannot suffer any more of your incompetence. Therefore, I am sending you a new master, one that will endeavor to keep you… on schedule.] _

_ "Who?" _Terl asked.

A thin smirk appeared on The Executor's face. It disappeared just as quickly.

_[I shall leave it a surprise,] _he said. The holographic feed began to cut out, the picture wobbling and rolling rapidly.

_"M-my lord?" _Terl stuttered. It was too late. The Executor was gone. His office was silent once again.

Cursing, he got to his feet and swept out the door. A new master, he raged—unthinkable and unkind! It may as well have been a babysitter! To think that someone as highly trained and battle honed as himself would have to suffer such an indignity! Still, he knew that he had no choice. The Executor's word was law, or at least the closest thing to it in this region of space. His demand was incontestable. Terl stomped down the corridor to his quarters, to await the arrival of his new… master.

* * *

Seven hours passed, then:

"General! We've spotted another ship!"

_"Wha? Issit The Critic's?"_ Terl replied groggily, having drowned his sorrows in half a bottle of Janxian moon-mushroom tonic. _"Hass'e come back? Cause that'd jus' be great."_

"It's unidentified, sir."

_"Whassat mean?" _

"It's not in our records, sir. It's a private craft."

The ensign left, and Terl stumbled out of his quarters and down the hallway to the lavatory. There, after restoring his neckbeard and dreadlocks to their full glory, and taking an unpleasant trip in the detoxifier, he stomped into the ship's docking bay. A good chunk of his personnel were already there, loitering around a table loaded with refreshments. Tacked to the wall above it was a banner with the words "WELCOME NEW CO-WORKER" printed on it in Galactic Standard. Terl bitterly resisted the urge to have the imbecile who thought to hang it up drawn and quartered.

He looked at the bulkhead in front of him. No ship had docked yet. It was still shut tight. _"Well? Where the hell is he?" _he asked impatiently.

"Long-range scanners picked him up at around .5 AUs from Earth, sir," an ensign replied, looking up from his data chart. "He should be here in about three minutes."

_ "Terrific." _Terl folded his arms across his chest. _"Goddamn fucking terrific." _

Three more minutes passed.

"Look!" another ensign said. Floating across the docking bay's wall of windows was a ship which looked like a jumble of silver sugar cubes smashed together. It reflected the sun in its many oblongs, making it seem like a glittering crystal in the sky above the planet. Strange antennae and instruments protruded from it at all angles. It glided smoothly over the stern to the posterior docking port, connecting to it with ease. Some of the ensigns freely applauded the fine display of maneuvering.

_"So he's a brilliant pilot, so what?" _Terl muttered.

A loud clanking sound was heard, various landing components locking into place. The mechanisms of the docking bay whirred and twittered as the pressure between the two ships was equalized. Gas leaked from the bulkhead in thin spurts. Terl briefly hoped the interloper would choke to death on the ship's atmosphere when he entered. The pressurized gas dispersed. The bulkhead's main screw unlocked, and the iron doors slid aside. A bright white light filled the room. Out of it strode a single man.

He was dressed in a strange tunic made of what appeared to be lycra, which sported a v-neck nearly to the middle of his hirsute chest, a black belt, and thick black leather jackboots. He wore a thick beard across a face that was stony, calm and merciless. His vision was keen, seemingly surveying the entire room at once. The ensigns, immediately sensing danger, sidled back from him as he strode across the floor. He stopped in the middle of the bay. The white light dissipated.

Terl loped forward, stepping up to the newcomer and unenthusiastically raising his left hand to his forehead in the imperial salute. _"I am General Terl, commander of this vessel, last son of the planet Psychlo, and your… apprentice." _He spat this last word out as quickly as possible. _"Who may I ask are you?" _

The stranger looked at him. **"Kneel," **he said, pointing to the deck.

_ "Terrific. We got a cultural exchange student," _Terl muttered. _"Hello, Neil. It is nice to meet you," _he said slowly, pointing to the deck as well.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **For those of you not familiar with Paw's song, look it up. I thought it sounded like a good starting off tune.

Coming up in Part 3: More mysterious grey helmet guy, more alien hijinks, more pop cultural references! All the good stuff you've come to expect! Be here.

-Xoanon


	19. Part 3, Chapter 18

**Part 3: Into the Breach**

**Chapter 18: Messages**

_Everything starts as somebody's daydream._

—Larry Niven

* * *

He was sitting inside the cockpit of the spaceship. The ship, having been rolled out of his garage, was now standing silently on the back lawn. With one touch of the launch button, the landing struts would retract, and it would jet up through the atmosphere and into deep space quiet as a thin breeze. He took one last look at his house, which stood just beyond the ship, its lights off and doors locked. The Johnsons next door had agreed to feed his cat and keep an eye on the place. He would only be gone a few days, but it paid to make sure things would be safe. He'd never gone into space before.

Well, he thought, there was a first time for everything.

He pressed the launch button. A powerful engine kicked in underneath the cockpit. The struts whirred and broke into articulated pieces, storing themselves in the belly of the craft. Slowly, then more rapidly, the ship began its ascent. It _was_ quiet. Aside from a thin blue light and soft hum, no other light or sound broke the calm evening air or rattled the panes in the nearby houses. The ship went up, and up, and up until east Philadelphia was nothing but a dull orange-lit smear on the continent, and kept climbing. Soon, Earth was beneath it, falling away faster and faster until he was alone in the gulf of space. He put both hands on the yolk and pulled back. The ship responded to him immediately. He was flying in space. Liftoff was complete.

He brought up the ship's computer system again. "Launch cycle" he crossed off the list. Already, it had his next set of instructions: Follow the _USS_ _Exit Strategy_ to Europa. Protect The Nostalgia Critic at all costs. Once out of atmosphere, begin enhancement of _Exit Strategy_ crew. Flipping to another screen, he brought up the ship's MENS projector. He aimed it at the _Exit Strategy_'s energy trail and activated it. A thin set of energized idea ions began to pulse through space…

* * *

_"Oh… now I get it…" _Terl choked out. _"You meant that in the imperative sense…"_

Terl was now lying flat on his back on the deck of the landing bay, ribcage struggling to hold up the herculean leg "Neil" had placed firmly upon it. The ship's security officers had formed a cautiously wide circle around the two, weapons drawn. The newcomer was still impeccably calm. Leather boot still firmly placed on Terl's chest, he straightened and spoke to his would-be arresters.

**"Allow me to introduce myself," **he said. **"I am General Dru-Zod of Krypton. I serve the interests of our empire there, and was asked by my mutual friend The Executor to educate this cretin on how to be a proper apprentice." **

_"What!?" _Terl squeaked. _"Mutual friend? You've got to be pulling my fucking leg!"_

**"Be silent, swine," **Zod ordered. Terl would have retaliated, if he'd been able to take in more breath. Instead, merely he gagged. **"From this demonstration, it is clear to me that your so-called 'general' is no longer fit to command this vessel if he can be subjugated so readily. Therefore, it is only proper that he relinquish control of the ship to me, so that we may more prudently rectify his mistakes." **

_"Relinquish my ship!? To you!?" _Terl's face was now turning a deep purple, not from rage, but from lack of breath-gas. _"I'd sooner step out the airlock than turn my pride and joy over to some knuckle-dragging Kryptonian sloth!"_

**"If death is your wish, that may be arranged," **Zod replied. He shifted his weight to the leg keeping Terl pinned. Terl began to sputter and gasp.

_"Alright, alright, fine! Take the damn ship!" _he cried.

**"Excellent." **Zod removed his foot, and Terl took in a whooshing gulp of breath. Ignoring him, Zod stepped up to a security officer wearing a crimson sash over his breastplate, brushing the laser gun barrel aside. He pointed to the sash. **"This symbol identifies you as head of security aboard this vessel, does it not?" **

"Yes sir," the officer replied.

**"Tell your subordinates to lower their weapons."**

"Yes sir." He turned to the others. "Lower your weapons, men. Captain's orders."

_"What? Bullshit!" _Terl cried, leaping up from the deck drunkenly. _"I never gave you the authority to order my men around!"_

**"Yes you did. You relinquished control of the ship," **Zod said.

_"No, I relinquished control of the ship proper! _I _still control its crew!" _

**"Such semantics are frivolous," **Zod replied.

_"Oh really?" _Terl turned to his chief of security. _"Officer! Under my authority over the ship's crew—and not the ship itself—I order you and your men to raise their weapons and fire at the intruder, General Zod!" _

"Yes, sir."As ordered, the soldiers began to train their weapons on Zod.

**"Belay that order," **Zod ordered. **"As commander of this vessel and its crew, I order you to fire your weapons at Terl." **The soldiers obeyed, rounding on Terl.

_"Fire your weapons at Zod!"_

**"Fire upon Terl."**

_"Fire at Zod!" _

**"Terl.**

_"Zod!"_

**"Terl."**

_"ZOD!"_

**"Terl!" **The weapons flipped back and forth between Terl and Zod, Zod and Terl, until most of the grunts could hardly remember which was which.

_"Fire at Zod, damnit!" _Terl screamed.

**"Fire at Terl or suffer my wrath!"**

_"Fire at Zod or suffer _my _wrath!" _

**"My wrath is far greater than his!"**

_"My wrath is greater than far greater!" _

"Stop it! For the love of everything good and decent, stop it!" an unnamed grunt cried, throwing down his gun. "Stop this Bugs Bunny/Daffy Duck bullshit! You can't just bark out conflicting orders at us and expect everything to go as planned! We're soldiers, not cartoon shmucks! One of you tell us what we should aim at and let us get to shooting it!"

Zod considered this outburst, then said: **"Very well. Fire upon whoever vexes you the most."**

_"Oh you suck!" _Terl was unceremoniously cut down by a dozen laser bolts hitting him in the face and chest. Luckily, the officers' weapons were set to stun, and had only paralyzed Terl's muscles instead of turning them into a charred mess. Zod, now uncontested captain of the vessel, stepped away from Terl's fallen body and gave his crew further orders.

**"Ensign, prepare the ship for departure from Earth orbit. We set a course for…" **He turned back to Terl. **"Who is our quarry, if I may ask?" **

_"Th Nstlge Crtc," _Terl blathered, lips rubberlike and drooping.

**"Very well. Set a course for Th-Nestalj Kirtik!" **The ensigns, unwilling to correct Terl's mispronunciation, left the docking bay to return to their posts inside the belly of the ship. No one moved to pick Terl up off the floor.

_"Rm, hllo?" _Terl mumbled, trying and failing to prop himself up with his noodle-fied arms. _"Cud smune hlp me? I'm kina prralyzd hr!" _

**"Fear not, Terl," **Zod said as he followed the last of the ensigns to the door. **"Once I am properly situated, I will send for you. For now, let this be your first lesson under the tutelage of Zod: The Trial of Darkness. Good luck." **

Zod flipped the switch on the wall near the door. The lights went down immediately. With that, he stepped briskly into the ship proper, slamming the bulkhead closed behind him. Terl was now alone in the landing bay.

_"Hllo?" _he called. _"Gys? Annebuddy? Hllo…" _

* * *

_Black. _

_ Endless fields of black._

_Then, a flicker of blue._

_More flickers. _

_ Symbols and shapes. Lines. Helixes. A blue circle within infinitely bigger circles._

_ Stars. An endless field of them. Moving through. _

_Something brilliant up ahead. Moving toward it through the darkness of a thousand leagues, past the swirling heavens all around. More flashes of brilliance—coordinates, calculations, diagrams. _

_Blueprints._

_Jump to lightspeed. The field of stars a radiant blue, then pure white. A domed thing, huge and ponderous, speaking through the darkness behind, commanding:_

**_See the dream. Build the dream._**

_And then: inspiration._

CR jumped.

He was in engineering, at the controls of the warp drive. He heard its gentle hum, the rest of the crew bickering; Paw's atrocious crooning on the bridge: _…Haaaaaaaaaands across the water, heaaaaaaaaaads across the sky… _ He turned around. Film Brain was typing away at the directional coordinating system. Joe was asleep at the planning desk using a mushroom cap as a makeshift pillow. Lindsay was walking back and forth across the same deck space, taking care to bump into Lupa at her security station each time she passed her by. He was back on board the _Exit Strategy_.

And he had acquired a very important piece of cargo.

Slowly, CR got up from his seat. Slipping past the two bickerers, he left the room and headed upstairs to the "ground" floor, whatever that meant in space. The reinforced pseudo-windows looked out onto a field of endless black. Stars dotted it everywhere. The panes in them looked thinner than they had been when they were installed, far thinner. He turned away and headed for the kitchen.

In what could be called the dining room there was a large table stocked with paper, pencils and a template. CR grabbed them up, and with a fresh sheet he sat down to draw. He started with a large semicircle at the bottom, lines radiating from it in all directions. The lines connected to another circle at the top, this one imbued with an odd set of geodesic patterns within it. On the left side he drew a strange chain of helixes. On the right he drew an overlapping set of grey rectangles. More schematics were drawn around the outer edge, odd shapes and patterns. He drew for around thirty minutes, leaning further and further toward the page as he sketched. He was drawing what he'd seen in his dream.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair, having sketched the pencil dull. The completed drawing looked like a technophile's junk drawer, a mess of wires, circles, and blocks. He turned it over once, twice, looking for some other angle that would tell him the significance of his creation. There wasn't one. That was it. That was all there had been.

He was still puzzling over the thing when JesuOtaku walked in. She had been in the "scientific sanctum" (The Critic's bedroom) the Space Committee had claimed for themselves, napping. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and yawned. In her hands she carried another piece of paper.

"Hey, JO," CR said.

"Hey," Jesu replied between yawns. "What're you doing up here?"

"Oh, just… drawing." He put his pen down. "You?"

"Same. I came down here looking to get some more pens. What're you drawing?"

"I…" CR paused briefly, and rubbed his eyes again. "I don't really know. I was just monitoring the power core downstairs when I had this oddly specific daydream. I felt like it was something important. So I came up here to get it all down on paper…"

"Really?" Jesu said, intrigued.

"Yeah. I know it sounds kinda weird. It was almost like a voice was…"

"Talking to you?" Jesu finished. "Dictating?"

"Heh, yeah," CR said, picking up the drawing again to look at it. "And I can't really tell, but it looks like it was giving me blueprints…"

"On how to build a machine," Jesu finished, again.

CR looked up at her. "But…"

"You…"

"Only…"

"Got…"

"Half..."

"Of…"

"It?" CR asked.

"Yeah." Jesu laid down her piece of paper next to CR's. Jesu's paper had a drawing on it remarkably similar to his, but in blue ink instead. CR studied Jesu's drawing. At its bottom there was another incomplete semicircle with branching wires, and at its top there was an odd P-shaped construct connected to them. The rest of the drawing had the same components as CR's: the schematics, the geometric patterns, the odd blocky device at the bottom, the strange chain of helixes at the top. Strangely enough, it looked like they…

He picked up his paper and turned it on its side, folding the bottom down so that its edge would match with the edge of Jesu's project. He slotted the two together. They formed a single contiguous drawing. It _was_ a blueprint, a very odd blueprint. The helix chain at the top was a sleeve of some sort. The blocky thing at the bottom was a case. The strange tangle of lines in-between was… a relay? Circuitry? He still didn't know. All that he knew now was that his and JO's components were interconnected with each other and with large inner circle which now existed at the center of the combined drawing, which, he assumed, was a central processor for the device. They were a perfect match.

"That's way too freaky to be a coincidence, isn't it?" Jesu said.

"You had the same dream," CR said unbelievingly. "How could we both have had the same dream?"

Jesu shrugged. "Dunno. What do you think it does?"

"I don't know," CR replied, inspecting the pages closely. "I can't read any of the details. From the looks of it, this thing's probably light years ahead of anything we have on Earth. I'd bet even Insano couldn't figure it out."

"Should we try to build it anyway?" Jesu asked.

"We could give it a shot, I guess."

"What happens if the rest of the crew starts having weird dreams?"

CR sighed, placing the two halves of paper back down on the table. "Then we're going to need a whole lot more paper."

* * *

Stupid Zod, Terl thought. Stupid Critic, stupid master, stupid re-training, stupid poorly designed ship, stupid mission, stupid contact, stupid, stupid, stupid.

It had taken him three hours to get to his quarters. The feeling in his arms had come back just enough to allow him to drag his still-immobilized body around. In complete darkness he'd flopped over to the bulkhead, opened it, and from there began the agonizing crawl toward his quarters. The main corridor was deserted, most likely because the underlings were probably still showing General-I'm-so-fucking-clever Zod around. Traitors. He would have them all ejected into space once he regained command.

He dragged himself inside, clutching the woven carpet at the foot of his bed for support, and there his strength expired. He rolled over and lay there, sputtering and gasping for breath. He was angry at everything; his master, The Critic, Zod, and especially the contact, that robotic man whom he had contracted to end The Critic's pitiful existence. He had failed utterly. Schemer! Liar! Impudent fool! If only that metal moron had annihilated The Critic when he'd had the chance, he wouldn't be in this predicament!

Suddenly, his communicator beeped. He limply took it from his belt and held it in front of his still-grimacing face. His eyes widened. It was a message coming from somewhere near the orbit of Mars, from a shipboard internet system. The message was:

_[Aboard Critic's ship. Awaiting further instructions.] _

It was his contact.

A mad grin spread over Terl's flushed face. His contact was aboard The Critic's ship. Wonderful! Brilliant! He hadn't managed to kill The Critic before liftoff, but he'd managed to do the next best thing—install himself right next to the imbecile. Terl was ecstatic. He had an inside man now, an invisible knife right at The Critic's throat, and he would be sure to use it to the best of his advantage.

He raised his arms to the ceiling and laughed for a long time.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Zod was also a joy to write. I play him a bit more serious at the start than in the movie. He's a guy with dignity, but not totally above everyone else. Just in case you're worried, Billy Arratoon, there won't be any major changes to the story or him.

-Xoanon


	20. Part 3, Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: Moving Pictures**

_Photography is truth. The cinema is truth twenty-four times per second._

—Jean-Luc Goddard

* * *

_MENS transmission operation 100% complete. Subjects [CR] and [JO] implemented. _

_ Commence second operation? Y/N_

He pressed "Y".

_Select target. _

His hands flew over the keyboard.

_Target option selected. Processing second operation for subject [JO]._

The MENS began to recharge...

* * *

Paw held his camcorder out in front of him and pressed the record button. The Critic had finally put a stop to his singing by smashing his mix CD into a thousand pieces with a shoe, so this was the start of plan B to keep himself occupied during the long voyage. He wasn't exactly happy with it, but it offered him a chance to thoroughly document one of the most important space missions of all time, as well as a convenient opportunity to annoy his shipmates by filming their wacky antics.

"Hey, everybody. Science Officer Paw here," he said casually. "You might not believe me, but I'm currently in the engineering quadrant on board the _USS Exit Strategy_, the first civilian-manned mission into space. And I figured as long as we're going to the outskirts of the Solar System to fight an entity that might possibly destroy all of humanity, I figured I may as well do a v-log about it to keep you all informed about your impending doom. Anyway, like I said, I'm the ship's Science Officer—the most_ logical_ crewmember." He gestured to the Vulcan-eared headphones he was still wearing. "And because of my well-renowned expertise in all the sciences, I'm currently helping Ensign Phelous in his efforts to remove our captain's security anklet..."

He turned the camera to The Critic, who was seated on top of a pallet of boxes with his right leg splayed out in front of him. Phelous was kneeling at his ankle holding a hacksaw in one hand, rearing to cut. JewWario, Film Brain, and CR were standing by to watch the carnage unfold.

"Alright, are you sure this isn't going to hurt?" The Critic asked nervously.

"Of course not, Critic," Phelous replied, rather unreassuringly, tightening his grip on The Critic's twitching leg.

"Really? Because it looks like it's going to hurt—"

"It'll be just like ripping off a bandage… with a hacksaw." He brought the saw down to The Critic's sock and was about to make the first incision when JewWario suddenly piped up: "Wait a second, guys, I think I have a better idea."

"Does it involve a bigger saw?" Phelous said.

"Nope. CR and I are working on combining The Critic's teleporter thingy with the ship's computer systems." He turned to CR's station, where the teleporter module was already hooked up, a forest of tangled wires connecting it precariously to the computer terminal. CR was busy punching in a series of coordinates on the keyboard.

"If I calculate the drift percentage just right, and triangulate the particle location system using the ship's wireless router, then I can direct the teleportation beam to any location I want," he said. "That way, we'll be able to teleport the anklet off The Critic's leg without having to cut the band at all."

"After you do that, can I cut his leg off anyway?" Phelous asked hopefully.

"What is wrong with you?" The Critic said.

"Here goes nothing." CR pressed the "enter" button. A beam of blue light enveloped The Critic's ankle. A moment later it dissipated, taking the anklet with it.

"Genius!" The Critic cried.

"Well, that was easy enough," CR said. "But I can't quite tell where it went…"

Suddenly, there was a gagging noise. The group turned to face Film Brain, who was grasping at his throat and struggling to breathe. The anklet had teleported into his mouth. Acting quickly, JewWario put him in a Heimlich hold and squeezed down on his stomach. The anklet flew from his mouth onto the floor, sparking and snapping with electricity. JewWario then released Film Brain. He flopped to the floor as well.

"You've seen it here first, folks. Teleportation technology at its finest!" Paw narrated into the camera's mike. "Tell us, JewWario, how did you come up with that idea?"

"Well, a good pilot's got to know these things. I've been learning all sorts of sci-fi details lately," JewWario replied. "I figured since I'm the ship's navigator, I should try to learn from the expert."

"Buzz Aldrin?"

"Nope. George Takei. I've studied up on his techniques." JewWario produced a small leather bound tome with the Japanese master's face on it in embossed gold leaf. "It's called the _Tao Ta Kei_," he said. "It's the best handbook a starfighter could possibly have! I'm already up to chapter three: 'Loving Your Joystick'."

He opened the book to a random page. A moment later, he turned it on its side, and his eyes widened. _"Oh myyyyyyy…" _Blushing, he showed the page to Film Brain and Phelous, who both nodded in approval.

* * *

Next, Paw headed to the living room on the upper deck. The Snob and Luke were there, pouring over several documents of no-doubt ill repute. Paw focused his camera on them and continued his impromptu documentary.

"And here we see co-captain Cinema Snob and co-captain's assistant Luke Mochrie," he said, zooming in far too tightly on The Snob's face. "Luke is The Snob's protégé, and is currently being trained in the ways of the Z-grade filmmaker. Can you tell us your curriculum, Mr. Snob?"

"Get that camera out of my face, Coppola," The Snob grumbled. "But if you must know, then yes, I am teaching him the ways of the greats: Roger Corman, Ed Wood, John Carpenter, and so on." He turned to Luke. "You see, my apprentice, in every production there is always a good movie waiting to be made. No matter how much the script sucks or how bad the actors are, all you need is the right director and everything falls into place."

Luke wrote this down in the notebook he carried with him. "So then if you have the right director, then it doesn't matter if you're on a shoestring budget, right?" he said. "You don't need money to make a good movie."

"Well… that's not always the case," The Snob replied. "Sometimes, having all that other stuff in the mix means you have to work exponentially harder so you won't end up with a huge pile of crap. But, I can tell you the one secret to making any low-budget film tolerable."

"Clever writing?"

"Not even close." He leaned in, pushing Paw and the camera aside. "Tits. Big, bounding, bombshell shaped tits. It works every single time. I've never seen it fail. Not once."

Luke scribbled "tits" in his notebook. "So that's it? The secret is women's breasts?"

"Absolutely. Allow me to present a case study:" The Snob produced a dusty set of papers from his briefcase and placed it on the table next to them. "This is a little project I've been working on since I was eleven years old. It's a beautiful tale of redemption, betrayal, and horror set against the backdrop of the antebellum South. And it has tits. _Sooooo _many tits."

"Wow," Luke said, leaning in to ogle the illustrations. "Those look like zombies…"

"They are…"

"…dressed in Confederate uniforms…"

"Uh-huh…"

"…fighting women in bikinis."

"I call it_ Confederate Zombies vs. Amazon Girls A Go-Go. _It's a period piece, but it's got this Tarantino feel to it that underscores the whole 'endless bloody conflict' thing."

"Very stylish," Luke said. "Do you ever plan to make it?"

"Someday, once this whole reviewing thing… well, takes its course."

Luke's smile faded. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Oh come on, kid, you can't really expect this gig we've got to last, can you?" The Snob replied. "We're all making reviews of movies, games, comics, and other crap tied up with millions of dollars in corporate money, advertising, and copyright laws. It's a wonder we haven't been shut down already. The shit train's coming, kid, and the critics are tied to the tracks. But don't you worry." He tapped the filthy cover of the screenplay. "With this little beauty under our hat, when the apocalypse comes we'll be sitting pretty."

"Oh. Okay… cool…" Luke said. He looked crestfallen as he said it, though. At that moment Linkara walked into the room, talking into a little grey cell phone. He was dictating something to somebody. He hadn't said much to anybody during his time aboard the ship. Paw decided to rectify that.

"And here's everybody's favorite nerd, Linkara!" Paw shoved his lens into Linkara's face. Annoyed, Linkara slapped his phone shut and grimaced for the camera. "C'mon, pal, say something crazy for the video, like how this all feels like a bad comic book or something," Paw said.

**[****Impudent human. Death is only a shadow of what awaits you,****] **Linkara snarled. He turned swiftly around and walked off.

" Always a funny guy, that Linkara," Paw laughed.

* * *

"Aaaaand here we have two stellar members of the Space Research Committee… Get it? Cause 'stellar' means having to do with space and… they're part of the Space Research Committee… CR and JesuOtaku." Paw turned the camera toward CR and Jesu, who were on the bed busy working on what looked like a toaster crossed with a horrible nest of nightmares. "So, what're you guys working on?" he asked.

"A top secret project," CR said, adjusting his newly obtained LaForge-style visor slightly.

"Sounds interesting. Where'd this come from?"

"Well, a couple hours ago we both had the same dream, and something in that dream made us draw up blueprints and told us to build what we drew, so we decided to literally start trying to build it." Jesu said. She picked up a crescent wrench, decided against it, and put it down again. "So far, we've been making little progress."

"OK, weird…" Paw said, inching back a little to get a shot of the machine. "You guys both had the same dream?"

"Yeah… It was nothing lewd, if that's what you're thinking." CR said, soldering his vest to a circuit board by accident.

"That's okay. I'm thinking it now," Paw smirked.

"It was just blueprints! Visions of blueprints and… I don't know, some kind of incoherent, low-key murmuring. Like a voice. Did you hear anything, JO?"

"I heard it. It was like being stuck in shop class with William Hurt," she agreed.

"So what does this thing do, anyway?" Paw reached for a coil of wire, only to have his hand slapped away by CR.

"We don't really know. From what I've been able to discern from the blueprints, some of the connections and hardware bear resemblance to lie-detector equipment, meaning that it could be a machine that either reads or manipulates brainwaves to a certain extent. As you can see, we're still putting it together, so it's all speculation…"

"It's funny," Jesu said, wiping off grease stained hands on her tank top. "I'm a total failure at technical stuff, so I'm not exactly the best person to be helping CR here. I can't even make toast right without burning down half my kitchen—"

There was a sudden blinding flash, accompanied by a rush of static-y noise. JesuOtaku briefly disappeared inside a pulsing blue bubble. Paw's camera was knocked slightly askew as Paw and CR both covered their eyes from the blinding light. It was gone as quickly as it came. The two looked over at Jesu. Her hair was now bright red, sticking up in a large mismanaged coif. She was also wearing green-tinted goggles. Aside from that, nothing else about her had changed—nothing noticeable. She looked at the two men in front of her.

"Uh, JO?" Paw asked. "You okay?"

Jesu replied:

_"Edward is fine, thank you!"_ She somersaulted over to the mess of gadgetry on the bed, picking up a large piece of something and began to solder away at it, gluing wires down to its surface haphazardly.

"Edward?" CR said. "Isn't that a guy's na—" He had no time to finish that sentence as "Jesu" whipped the part of the circuit board which held his vest aside, carrying him along with it. _"Why are we just focusing on one project when we could be working on several?"_ she asked, head flipping back and forth as she worked. _"I'm going to make an engine that not only runs on water, but replicates it in thirty-two different flavors!"_ She kept soldering at the board as CR climbed back onto the bed.

"JO… what're you—" She took the visor from his head and went to work on it with her tools. She poked and prodded it, inserted new wires and circuitry from the pile on the bed, gouged at it with the soldering gun, stapler, screwdriver, and a rubber duck, and finally returned it to him unharmed.

_"There you go! Super-charged and ready to roll!"_ she laughed. CR put the visor on. Almost immediately, his expression of bewilderment turned to wonder.

"Holy smokes!" he cried, looking around excitedly. "You've invented X-ray specs! I can see so much better with these! I can see through the walls, the ceiling!" He looked into the next room. "I can even see into the living room… is that Eight Bit Mickey watching _My Little Pony_?"

"Sure is, and I'm damn proud of it!" Mickey replied, having heard CR's exclamation.

_"Another satisfied customer!"_ Jesu giggled, lazily dabbling with another circuit board and a strange looking glowing cylinder she'd constructed in that short span of time. _"Oh cold fusion, you are easy peasy lemon-squeezy! On to neon warp cosmological spatial patterns and structured Riemannian generation! Ahahahahaha!"_

CR and Paw looked at each other. "I find this quite illogical," Paw said.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The mystery of the grey spaceman continues. Why is he messing with the _Exit Strategy_'s crew? Why is he sworn to protect The Critic? Who is this enigmatic starship trooper? If you've watched the movie, you should know all this by now! If not, then read on!

Also, does anyone else find JO's Edward laugh to be _really_ annoying? It's not that I don't like Radical Edward, I just find the laugh to be a bit much.

Next time: Home Decor with General Zod.

-Xoanon


	21. Part 3, Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: The Dark Side**

_Without followers, evil cannot spread._

—Spock

* * *

The ship-formerly-commanded-by-Terl plowed through near-Earth space. On its bridge, General Zod strode, lost deep in the realms of thought as he inspected every inch of its flexi-steel walls and iron catwalks. He stroked his beard mightily. Inside his highly honed Kryptonian brain, synapses with capacity far beyond that of mortal Earthmen and especially that of those slovenly Daxamites were firing. He was formulating a plan. In the background, a fully recuperated Terl watched him, occasionally scoffing and/or rolling his eyes. Zod stopped suddenly in front of the captain's chair, and stood before it for a moment.

**"The critics are quite adept adversaries," **he said at last. **"Their homeowner strategy, though bizarre, puts them at a distinct advantage on the battlefield of space. If we are to defeat them, then we must emulate their advantages to the best of our ability. Yes! We must fight fire with fire! Terl—**

Zod turned to face his apprentice. **"Order your men to transform this vessel into a house."**

_"A _what?" Terl said unbelievingly.

**"A house, a domicile, a Fortress of Solitude and Death mighty enough to make the son of Jor-El cream his tights!" **Zod replied, clenching his fist.

Terl considered this. _"May I ask why?" _

**"The critics got it right. They've made their work their home and their home their work, a brilliant maneuver enacted to keep up shipboard morale and facilitate camaraderie amongst the crewmembers. Therefore, in order to instill these positive feelings in our crew, we must do the same to our ship. Transform this place at once."**

_"You can't be serious."_

**"I am."**

_"Do you even realize the sheer enormity of what you're asking?" _Terl said. _"We've only got thirty crewmembers on board, including you and me. To completely remake this place would take hundreds of hours and manpower we don't have! It's practically impossible!"_

**"Nonsense!" **Zod countered with a mighty sweep of his arm. **"On planet Krypton, nothing is impossible! All the necessary labors to be done can be completed with a simple montage!" **

_"How?"_ Terl asked.

**"You have much to learn, my apprentice,"** Zod replied. **"Observe:" **

* * *

Piece by piece, Terl's mighty ship was turned inside out and rebuilt. Zod announced his plan to the crew. Almost immediately, they drew up blueprints for a modest split-level worthy of Pasadena or Boca Raton. Zod immediately revamped them to include various other styles, including Romanesque, Moorish, Tudor, Dutch Colonial, and even that of the majestic crystal palaces of Krypton's northern continent. Terl occasionally offered some thoughtful suggestions, most of which were ignored.

From there, work commenced rapidly. The crew fanned out across the ship, digging durasteel crowbars into the walls. The iron panels they ripped out were piled in the center of the bridge to form the house's foundation. Further supplies were beamed from a Home Depot in Macon, Georgia to the ship, a list which included planks of wood, caulk, ceiling fans, paint, light bulbs, potted plants, floor molding, wallpaper, potpourri and other decorative fixtures. Terl took careful inventory of everything, hoping he would be able to bust Zod for the reckless procuring of such frivolous goods in the future.

The crew nailed wooden planks down to the plating, and the center room slowly began to take shape. As the embryo of the house grew, the ship disintegrated around it, the lavatory, crew's quarters, and other essential rooms being integrated into the structure one by one. Occasionally, accidents occurred, such as the unfortunate instance of Terl's quarters being launched moonward by an errant swing of the gravitational crane, but aside from these errors work progressed right on Zod's tightly dictated schedule. Once the house and its rooms were completed, work turned to beautification. They laid down carpet and reconfigured life support systems, installed tiles on one half of the roof and solar panels on the other, and painted the inner walls in every color imaginable.

Through sweat, blood and a great quantity of tears as Terl criticized their sloppy brush strokes and uneven spackling, the crew made that house their own. Computer systems were reinstalled to accommodate picture frames and stained glass. Weapons were refitted to gargoyle-like stone emissaries outside the front door. Potted plants were placed everywhere. When it was over, the ship was no longer a ship. It had become a cozy yet regal interstellar dwelling powered by pulse engines, deadly laser weaponry, and love.

The montage was complete.

* * *

_"Wow," _Terl marveled, standing in his newly completed living room. _"I've got to admit, that was simply amazing! The time went by so fast!"_

**"Indeed. Such is the joy of time compression," **Zod replied. **"The Executor has trained me well in the ways of the editing arts."**

_"You've done fine work, General."_ Terl walked briskly around the floor space of his new home. _"Everything feels positively homey! I especially like that plant in the corner." _He pointed to a lone potted hyacinth on an end table that had been shoved up against the wall by the large air recuperation vent jutting out from it.

**"Yes, it really ties the room together," **Zod agreed.

_"The reconstruction is completed! Men, to your posts!" _Terl commanded. The men did nothing. _"Well? What are you standing around waiting for?"_

"Orders, sir," an ensign said. "General Zod's still our captain… sir."

_"Oh. Right…" _

**"Men, to your posts," **Zod ordered. Immediately, the men took up their positions on the "bridge", turning to the portraits on the wall that contained the gutted remnants of their hardware encased behind sheets of Plexiglas. Terl, ego still bruised from the reminder that he was no longer his own boss, decided to rekindle the war he'd lost long ago.

_"I may have been too hasty in congratulating you, Zod," _he began slyly. _"Your leadership, fancy and rejuvenating though it has been, has still gotten us no closer to catching the critics! I think that our master would not be too pleased with your progress…" _

**"Patience, my young matrix-ling," **Zod replied. **"Even as we speak, my highly enhanced Kryptonian mind is busy formulating a plan to capture and annihilate them!" **

Terl laughed. _"Well, General Crud, while you were busy working on your plan, I've already set mine into motion! Soon, we will have them in our clutches, making your plan totally irrelevant!" _

**"Is that so? Then may I ask what your plan is, Chia head?"**

_"While you and my crew were off playing Martha Stewart, I've been busy consolidating my ploy against our enemies by inserting a traitor into The Critic's ranks!" _Terl said.

**"Amazing," **Zod replied.** "Within your short time under my tutelage, you've already increased your reasoning power tenfold. Tell me: who is this traitor?"**

Terl began to laugh some more, and his eyes began to wobble back and forth strangely. _"Oh, I won't tell you who the traitor is or when he'll attack but he's close—real close! The Critic will die before these eyes, and he'll know—_he'll know!_—that it is I, General Ferdinand von Terl, who encompasses his doom! Ahahahahahahaha! Ahahahahahahaha!" _

Zod chortled.

Terl was brought out of his revelry. _"What? What's so funny?"_

**"Ferdinand?" **he said. **"Your name is Ferdinand?"**

_"Yes! It's a proud Psychlown name, with many years of history and meaning behind it, one that commands respect, and honor, everywhere it—"_

**"The name Ferdinand does not command respect, except perhaps in a Houstonian flower shop," **Zod interrupted, laughing openly now.

_"Shut up!"_

**"'Oh, excuse me! Excuse me for just one moment!'" **Zod said in strangling falsetto.** "'Cower before me, humans! I am General Ferdinand Terl, come to destroy you! But first, do you think you could come and help me arrange my bouquets?'"** He pantomimed an image of Terl handing flowers. A few of the crew members began chuckling.

_"Shut! Up!" _

**"Oh everyone, everyone flee! Flee in terror from the mighty display of power that is General Ferdinand Terl! Run, run! Or he may unleash his devastating assault of buttercups and tiger lilies upon you!" **Zod placed a hand on his brow, and continued laughing gaily. The crew burst into laughter along with him, and soon the entire room was filled with peals of merriment. Terl stomped off the bridge and toward his temporary quarters in the dining room. _"I hate this team up!" _he shouted, before squeezing out the door. The others ignored him and continued on.

"Setting a course for Europa, sir," the lead navigator said, in between bouts of involuntary giggling.

**"Very well, very well," **Zod exclaimed, wiping his own streaming eyes. He pulled out a palm-sized communicator and began to type on it. **"Oh, it is to laugh! I am so totally tweeting that!" **

* * *

His processor whirred and clicked within the confines of his metal skull. He was pouring through terabytes of data he'd downloaded from the ship's systems earlier that morning. The encryption methods put in place by the human called CR were laughable, if not downright superfluous, to his superior methods of communication. Within three days time, he would have full access to all the data and automated processes contained therein, so long as everything went smoothly and he went undiscovered. Judging by the reactions he'd received so far from the humans Paw, Sage and The Critic, he had little to worry about.

It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to not end the imbecilic farce right then and there, while he was plugged into bridge's computer. With one thought, one simple suggestion issued in a data command to the life support systems, he could've ended their silly little mission, and completed his own with relative ease. He could have ordered the deflector shields to power down, exposing them all to baking radiation and deadly micro-asteroids. Or he could have jettisoned all their food or water from the pantry storage containers, leaving them to starve to death and dehydrate over several days. The concept of their deaths was like some beautiful mathematical permutation. One solution, so many ways of carrying it out…

But he couldn't destroy them. Not yet. His benefactor had given him explicit instructions not to harm the crew until the order was given, and until that time he would have to wait. Pathetic fool. Once he had the secret to the prize he would do as he pleased.

He closed the mental files, having re-rendered and stored each of them in their entirety. The checklist he had ordained for the day was complete. The only thing left to do now was to wait. And wait. And wait. While the humans of this vessel cavorted in their own ignorance, he would wait. While their blind imbecile of a leader led them straight to the jaws of doom, he would wait. Through tomorrow's long stretch of torturous waking hours, through all the inanity and idiocy and unmitigated pointlessness of his prey's actions, through all the cumbersome restraints placed on him by his masquerade, he would wait, until his leash was broken.

And then, finally, he would kill them all.

His communicator buzzed. His heart would have skipped a beat, if not for its metronome-like precision. Swiftly, he withdrew it from his pocket and flipped it open, bringing it up to an auditory input device disguised as a misshapen human ear.

**[****Go ahead.****] **There was a brief sucking sound on the other line, and then the voice of General Terl streamed through. He sounded upset. Then again, organics always sounded upset over one thing or another. He certainly wasn't going to ask what was wrong. He didn't care.

_"W-we've made the necessary alterations to our ship," _Terl choked. His voice sounded like he was sucking on something sour and unpleasant tasting. _"We're en route to Europa now. Have you completed your current objective?"_

**[****The current objective of your operation has been satisfied. All necessary files have been copied and downloaded from the computer systems of the ****_Exit Strategy_****.****]**

_"Good! Good!" _There was a muffled honk. _"Teach that big jerkoff Zod to laugh at me… Proceed with phase two of the operation!"_

**[****With pleasure.****] **Another phase of Terl's silly operation commencing meant that he was another phase closer to snapping The Critic's neck like a stalk of celery and blowing this ridiculous ship to pieces. He was about to sign off when Terl stopped him:

_"Wait…" _Terl said, pausing for a short while. He waited patiently until the imbecile started talking again. _"You don't think my name is too… girly, do you?"_

**[****I wouldn't know,****] **he replied, resisting the urge to punch through the wall and cause the ship's atmosphere to leak out. **[****I've never heard it.****]**

_"Oh, right. Sorry…" _Terl apologized. _"It's… Ferdinand."_

**[****That is a perfectly valid given name. I see no reason to classify it as feminine.****]**

_"That's what I thought," _Terl said. _"Continue on with your mission. Terl out."_

He signed off. **[****Idiot.****] **

He opened the door of the room he'd hidden himself in, and stepped out into the hallway of the house's upper floor. He started to head downstairs. Phase two would require pilfering some of the more deadly items from Insano's little bag of tricks, which CR kept under lock and key in engineering. He would start tonight, while the humans were asleep.

He smirked. They'd better enjoy their rest, he thought. It would be their last.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Another montage o' text. It may be a little repetitive, but I thought it would serve as a good counterbalance to our heroes if the villains got their own shipbuilding segment, even if this one is a lot shorter. Hope the ending got everyone pumped for Part Four...

Next chapter is one of the high points of the entire movie, the discussion between The Snob and Luke about the future of the critics. (and the romance w/Todd and Lupa). I'm going over this one with a fine-toothed comb so I can really do it justice. So far, what I've got looks pretty good, but you never know what thoughts you might get in the eleventh hour. Be here on Wednesday.

-Xoanon


	22. Part 3, Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: No Particular Night for Snoring**

_Hope is a waking dream._

—Aristotle

* * *

It wasn't nighttime.

Yes, they were in space, and space felt dark, but it didn't feel like nighttime. Yes, they had drawn all the curtains so as not to be distracted by the fields of stars moving past the windowpanes, yes they were all in sleeping bags spread out over the floor of the bridge, and yes, the fluorescent lights above them had been extinguished at least an hour ago. The Critic had fallen asleep easily, but he was still rolling around in his chair, briefly *OXYGEN PUMP DISABLED* hitting important controls *OXYGEN PUMP ENABLED* every time he *OXYGEN PUMP DISABLED* moved his arms across its *OXYGEN PUMP ENABLED* buttons, but the others were still wide awake. They couldn't sleep. It wasn't nighttime.

It wasn't nighttime, because in space night never came.

Things didn't feel right on board the _Exit Strategy_. Even with all they had done to keep the ship feeling like a normal house—like home, like Earth—they were still painfully aware that they were in someplace alien. They weren't in a house; they were inside a steel and concrete canister driven by ionic pulse engines. The walls around them weren't walls at all. They were facsimiles of walls, reproductions of walls. They held computer components, radiation shielding, wires and circuits, things that no normal human dwelling would hold in their walls. They simply weren't in a home anymore. They were inside a spaceship.

Inside his sleeping bag, one restless soul by the name of Todd in the Shadows stared up at the ceiling. He definitely couldn't sleep, even with the bandana on his face doubling as a cozy sleeping mask. Inside his mind tumbled the thoughts of a man in deep distress. Or love. It was impossible to tell which. His brain told him he was acting crazy, and that he needed to cut his losses and start fresh before he got hurt, or arrested. His heart told him she was meant for him, and that he should stick it out no matter what the cost. His stomach had nothing to say other than it was still grappling with those beef tacos Sage had made for dinner. Whatever Todd's three top advisors told him was irrelevant, for he knew deep down in his very soul that he loved Obscuras Lupa.

He turned to look at her. By sheer coincidence (or in her opinion, bad luck), Lupa was sleeping right next to him. He hadn't had many chances to talk to her back on Earth before liftoff, but now the two of them were both lodged inside a rocket house flying through space. It was a sign. Better than that, it was a call to action. He reached out and poked her in the side. Immediately, her eyes snapped open, and she twisted around to face him, pinning his arm to the floor and putting a knife from the kitchen to his throat.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he hissed. "I just wanted to talk!" She released him. He took his arm back and rubbed it, wincing. Her grip had left red welts running down its length. Regaining his composure, he gathered up enough courage to speak again. "Okay, cards on the table," he whispered. "I need to tell you something that I've been keeping a secret for a while…"

"Look, Todd," Lupa whispered back. "I already know what you're going to say, and I think that it would be best for everyone involved if you would just not say it, okay?"

"I have to." Todd cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and said: "Lupa, I'm… madly in love with you."

"No. Really?"

"Yeah, I know. I've hidden it well," Todd replied. "But now, since we're here together on this spaceship, heading off into the unknown, probably, to die, I can finally tell you how I really feel. So, um… will you go on a date with me? Preferably before we die?"

"Well, I don't know…" Lupa began. "That's a tough question to think about…"

"That's okay. If you need time to think about it you can—"

"No."

"…Well that was quick."

Lupa sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, Todd," she said. "You're probably a nice guy and everything, but I just wouldn't feel comfortable dating a guy who hides his face. I want to see the whole person I'm going out with, instead of just his chin. It's nothing personal, I just… y'know, it's kind of hard to feel secure with someone who's insecure about himself. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Todd said quietly, head sinking a little into his hoodie. "I guess so. Sorry I woke you."

"It's okay. I'm sorry that—"

"Goodnight, Lupa." He rolled over onto his other side, away from her. Lupa said nothing else, and sidled back down into her sleeping bag, closing her eyes.

When Todd rolled over, The Chick was there waiting for him. He had asked specifically for a spot on the other side of the room from her when CR had assigned the crew their sleeping spots. Apparently, she was as persistent as he in playing the stalking game. "I, on the other hand, totally respect your need to hide your poor broken soul, and if you go out with me I will readily provide all-inclusive and intensive tender loving care," she said, pressing a clammy palm up to his chest.

"What?" Todd replied, sidling away. "What are you talking about? I'm not broken. I just don't like to show my face to hundreds of people at once on the internet."

"Oh Toddy, Toddy baby…" The Chick said seductively. "You don't have to hide your raw anguish from me. You just need someone to help lower your defenses, someone who understands you, someone who loves a fixer-upper mystery is sexy _oh dear God let me fix you!_" She pulled him into a half-embrace, but Todd broke out of it and pushed her back.

"Look," he said coolly, "I'm flattered, maybe even a little creeped out, but trust me when I say that your obsession with me is just a phase. You don't really like 'The Todd', you just like the intrigue of 'The Todd'. If you ever found out what I looked like under this, you'd drop me like a hot potato. That's just the way it is."

The Chick huffed angrily. "Fine. I will prove to you that I love you more than any woman ever has or ever will, or by God I will_ kill_ in the process!"

With that, she pulled up stakes and scuttled away through the sleeping bags. Todd, somewhat relieved to have solved all his relationship issues in one fell swoop, closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep. He was interrupted by Eight Bit Mickey, who had originally been sleeping in the spot next to Todd before The Chick had displaced him. Mickey plopped his sleeping mat and pillow down as noisily as possible next to Todd's head, and knelt down to level with the masked man.

"Look, Zorro," he said tiredly, "I don't mind you guys fighting over each other, but could you at least take your love triangle outside when we're trying to sleep?"

"Outside is a cold heartless vacuum," Todd said.

"Exactly, and so are The Chick and Lupa." Mickey snuggled up underneath his blanket and closed his eyes, a tiny grey pegasus plushie with golden googly eyes firmly wedged in his arms. The Critic pressed his arm down *NOW DEPLOYING FOOD RATIONS* on the control panel again. Something in the pantry upstairs exploded.

On the other side of the room slept The Snob and Luke. The Snob was fast asleep. Luke wasn't. He was busy reliving everything he had learned that day, and the most troubling factoid of all was that he wasn't going to be a reviewer forever. It bugged him severely. Why couldn't he keep being a reviewer? He liked being one, liked talking about movies and figuring out how they worked or didn't work, and he got paid for it. What could be the problem with doing what you really wanted to do? He had no answers for his questions. He needed advice.

He turned to face his slumbering master. The Snob was snoring face down into his pillow, glasses carefully placed aside on the floor. Luke reached out and gently poked his arm. "Hey Snob?" he asked. "Are you still asleep?"

There was a hitch in The Snob's snore. "I was." Very slowly, he propped himself up on his pillow and turned to face his apprentice. "What's on your mind, kiddo?"

"I was thinking about what you said to me and Paw today," Luke replied. "About the future—what'd you call it—the shit train? Do you really think our time's at its end?"

The Snob shrugged. "The world is a funny thing, kid. It's fluid. Times change, so do people and attitudes, and you've got to change with them or you're sunk. The internet's changing too. You hear about that copyright law they're trying to get through Congress?"

"SUCKA?"

"The other one."

"SOPA."

"That's the bastard. A couple of the site's producers went to protest it up on Capitol Hill and met with the aides of the bill's top sponsors. They basically told us our days are numbered, that even if we manage to kill that one bill they've got a whole bunch more waiting in the wings, ready to shut us down. There's no telling whether we'll be strong enough to beat the next one, let alone the next two or three. Besides, even if we survive this witch hunt, we can't go on chasing the zeitgeist forever."

"I guess not," Luke said. "But we're critics, right? The world always needs critics. It needs people who are smart enough to tell them what's worth doing again, and what's being done wrong."

The Snob scoffed. "That's a funny thing too. People say they want integrity from producers, that they want Hollywood to start making better movies and stop searching for a profit behind cash-grab remakes, prequels and sequels. People say they want change, but in the end nothing ever changes. In the end they go see whatever stupid crap that gets put out. We can rail against it and scream about it as loud as we want, but the only thing it ever amounts to is bupkiss. We're just dogs barking at the wind, kid. That's all."

"Why don't things change?" Luke asked.

"Inertia, pure and simple," The Snob replied. "Things don't want to change, and they don't change unless they absolutely have to. Even then, people like us usually don't have enough power to start the fire anyway. That belongs to the suits who got lucky enough to make it to the top. They make the decisions, they call the shots, and they pick the winners and losers in the game of life. Look at Michael Bay; we trash his shit-brained movies every chance we get, and he's still a goddamned millionaire."

"Sure he's got his millions," Luke said. "Big deal. That doesn't mean he has talent."

"Enough money makes lack of talent irrelevant," The Snob replied.

"We have something better than money."

"What's that?"

"A family."

The Snob eyed his protégé skeptically.

"A very… dysfunctional family," Luke admitted. "But look at it this way: there are thousands of people all around the world, aside from us, united by a few Ethernet cables, a keyboard, and a seething hatred for Michael Bay. They can bash and criticize and rail against his movies all they want, and he can't do squat about it. That's a beautiful thing. That's freedom. And nobody can take that away. You said we don't have the power to start the fire, but we do, and we have. The internet is our fire, and we've lit it underneath the entire world's ass."

"I suppose so," The Snob mused. "Hatred of douchebags almost always brings humanity together in united defiance. Just look at Fred Phelps."

"Yeah." Luke leaned back on his pillow. "Snob, promise me something."

"Sure, kid. What is it?"

"Promise me that when this is over, you won't let it end. Not like this. Promise me you'll keep the fire going. We have an indelible right to bitch and moan like free men, the way our Creator intended."

The Snob thought about it for a while. "I dunno, kid," he said at last. "That's a pretty tall order. Believe me, I get what you're saying, and if I could I'd stand right up and fight with you, but I don't think I have enough of an optimist left in me to do it. The shit train's damn powerful, and if you get in its way it'll run you down…"

Luke was silent. The Snob could tell he was still mulling over his mentor's words. He sighed again. If only he could be young again, before the world's never-ending stream of bullshit had flooded his engine and bogged him down in the muck. Still, he knew when he'd been philosophically beaten, and he knew that Luke would put up a damn good fight no matter what the odds were. He was a good student; he'd been trained too well to give up when the going got tough. And even though there was no way The Snob could cop to his partner's youthful idealism, that didn't mean he couldn't try.

"Tell you what:" He held out a hand to Luke. "You get my back, and I'll get yours. Deal?"

Luke smiled. He took The Snob's hand and shook it. "Deal."

"Alright. G'night, kid."

"Goodnight."

"Oh that is so Takei."

The Snob and Luke turned to face JewWario, who was reading his book by flashlight nearby. He looked at them. "What? I meant the book."

"Shut up and go to sleep," The Snob grumbled, tossing a pillow at him.

"Sorry." He put his book over his head. The Snob and Luke resettled in their sleeping bags and closed their eyes. Soon they were fast asleep. The others were slowly nodding off as well. They were tired now. They were still in space, they were still in a spaceship, and they were still afraid. Yet all of a sudden things didn't seem so bad. Some felt relieved, others cautious, and still others upset, but for the most part amongst the crew of the _Exit Strategy_ there was tranquility, although it had been no particular night for snoring.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Apologies to Jokerman for not fitting in an _Invader Zim _reference. Waffles just don't mix that well with pathos. I'll try to sneak something into a later chapter.

I'm really proud of the interlude between The Snob and Luke. I'd count it as one of the top five moments in the movie, including the stuff later with Clod. It was a breeze to expand on Doug's writing; everything just tumbled into place. The trip The Snob refers to is from Channel Awesome's meeting with lobbyists in Congress (see Nostalgia Chick's video "Mr. Awesome goes to Washington"). If any of you follow Doug's videos, you'll know this was the event that forced him to think about the future of the site and eventually retire The Critic to focus on shows not involving copyrighted material. It's a good move, and I agree with his decision. The party can't last forever.

I'm not one for doom-saying on any issue. Though I am a little worried that the internet will eventually become a little less free than it is now, but I think eventually we'll strike a happy medium. The internet is ingrained in our society now; no one's going to threaten their livelihood by trying to get rid of it or making it so sterile that it can't function anymore. Eventually, the old order will come to terms with their competition, perhaps yoke it a bit to get it working more productively. Otherwise it's a whole different playing field. So rest easy. The party can't last forever, but the police are going to have a hard time breaking it up.

-Xoanon


	23. Part 3, Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: Duplication**

_I met someone who looks a lot like you,_

_She does the things you do,_

_But she is an IBM._

—Electric Light Orchestra

* * *

_Target acquired. Destination: Europa_

He pushed the engines to their maximum. The ship shot across kilometers of space in an instant. The trail from the _Exit Strategy _was getting stronger; he was about to enter the second phase of his benefactor's operation. He flicked on the omni-spectral radar, turning its knobs to filter out background cosmic radiation. It whirred for a few moments, then a message flashed across its screen:

_High-level power pulse detected. Loading scan data: _

The data readout flicked across the screen. He glanced at it. Accelerated growth was occurring all across the moon's surface. It was happening. He checked the energy signature; it was a high band fluctuation in an Allen radiation field, 23.3 gigahertz signature. Something was coming from the Hole. Something huge...

* * *

The Nostalgia Chick sat at her computer in the kitchen, relentlessly shoveling ground up coffee into her mouth from a bowl on the table. She tapped the keyboard. Onscreen was a grayed-out Gmail tab with the little hourglass of her cursor spinning around and around on it endlessly. Why the hell was it taking so long to send? She figured CR, techno-geek that he was, would've installed a better modem in between mucking about with the warp core. She was still clicking her mouse fruitlessly to speed up the process when Film Brain came in.

"Good morning, Nostalgia Chick." He yawned, stretching his arms out, and noticed her unorthodox choice of breakfast. "Uh… are you chewing coffee?"

The Chick groggily looked down at the bowl. "Huh? Oh yeah. I couldn't sleep last… whatever, so I came up here to try and write a… very heartfelt, emotional email to… Todd."

"That thing?" Film Brain said, squinting at the gigantic scroll of text on the screen. "It looks like a digital copy of _War and Peace_."

"I wanted to get everything out," The Chick replied. "I've tried to send it three times over this crap internet connection, but it still won't go."

"No wonder. The thing's probably three gigabytes."

"Stow it, Union Jerk. Go and tell CR he needs to fix this thing. Why is it so damn slow?"

At that moment, JesuOtaku popped up beside The Chick at the kitchen table. She was as kooky as ever now that the tranquilizers administered by Sage to get her to sleep had worn off. _"That's because mean 'ol Linkara is hogging all the bandwidth upstairs, like a little bandwidth-hogging bee!"_ she cried, clapping her hands together.

"Wow. And I thought I was hyper," Film Brain snarked. JesuOtaku merely cavorted off through the kitchen, snorting: _"Oink, oink! Bandwidth bee! Linkara's a bandwidth bee!" _

"Well," The Chick said, rising from the table calmly. "I guess we'll have to see what he's going to do about that…" She got up and crossed the kitchen floor, slamming Film Brain against the countertop in her wake. She was about to have a long, painful talk with everyone's favorite comic reviewer.

* * *

A few moments later she was pounding on the door of The Critic's bedroom. Why Linkara was in here she could only guess, though it probably had something to do with his weird obsession with lamps. She shivered. Unspeakable things were most likely happening in that room right now, unspeakable bandwidth stealing things.

"Hey, Linkara!" she shouted, hammering on the door. "Stop hogging all the bandwidth in there! The rest of us have things to pointlessly obsess over too, y'know!" Suddenly, she noticed something orange at her feet. It was a power cord. She bent down and picked it up, and noticed it was plugged into the wall outlet a good way down the hall. That was weird. She was pretty sure Linkara's tech setup was wireless. There was no way he was still stuck in the corded age; he had his own spaceship, didn't he?

She tried the door. It was unlocked, much to her surprise. She crept into the room and found that it was deserted. The orange power cord snaked in across the wooden floor, underneath the bed and out of sight. Curiosity piqued, she stopped at the bedside and crouched down slowly. What did The Critic have under his bed that needed a power cord? Something kinky and embarrassing? She hoped it was. She was running out of blackmail material for reviews.

It wasn't anything kinky. Or embarrassing. It was Linkara. He was kneeling on the floor, slowly boring a hole in the reinforced-steel wall with a power drill from engineering, which was the item at the end of the cord he held in one hand. On the floor beside him were several little orbs, which she recognized as the electro-charges they'd stolen from Insano, along with a strange grey PalmPilot-sized thing. The Chick began to worry a bit. Exactly what was Linkara doing with high explosives, and a drill? And why the hell did he still have a PalmPilot? It was 2012.

Linkara picked up the palm thing and spoke into it. **[****Phase two is nearly complete,****]** he said. It was then The Chick noticed that Linkara didn't really sound like Linkara at all. His voice was too deep, too echo-y sounding, unlike his normal Minnesota whine which had little to no reverb. He didn't look like Linkara either. He wasn't smiling, or even vaguely contented. Other than a grimace he had no emotion on his face whatsoever. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen him emote once during the whole trip. She slowly stood up to leave while the palm thing spoke back:

_"Excellent! Once you've finished deploying the final charges, lay low for a bit, but when the opportune moment arrives strike and disable the ship!" _

**[****Risk assessment indicates a higher probability of charges being discovered the longer the operation is delayed. I advise we should strike as soon as possible in order to fully eradicate potential enemy gains.****]**

_"Nonsense! The Nostalgia Critic and his band of idiots are completely unaware of your presence! Just keep monitoring their progress and report back to me..." _

The Chick moved toward the door slightly faster as the Linkara-thing stood up, drill in hand. Her heart, despite her best efforts to control it, was racing in her chest. She had to get out of here, had to tell the crew that Linkara wasn't Linkara anymore, that something had replaced him or eaten his soul or something. The voice on the other end of the communicator kept talking as she stepped over the power cord:

_"…It's all coming together nicely, my nickel-plated friend," _the voice said._ "Soon—very soon now!—The Critic will know true fear, the sick, palpitating fear of the wrath of dead Psychlo and the sheer agony of his defeat! And once he falls, nothing will stop us! Earth will become our pawn, its people enslaved under our rule! And then, the entire galaxy will know and celebrate the fearsome name of Ferdinand von Terl! Ahahahahahahaha!"_

"Ferdinand?" The Chick whispered to herself. The potential conqueror of Earth's name was Ferdinand? The Chick would've ruminated further on this terribly poor name choice, if she hadn't alerted Thing-kara to her presence. It turned toward her with the speed of a falcon. For a moment it looked surprised, but then its mouth was drawn down in an angry sneer, and its eyes began to glow red.

"Um… hi?" The Chick said weakly.

**[****Excuse me, Terl,****] **it said into the PalmPilot. **[****I have an intruder to deal with.****]**

It lowered its communicator and started toward her. The Chick leapt to the door, but the thing was quicker. It slammed it shut with a mighty heft of its arm, moving so fast it left dents in the wood. The coronas of its eyes were bright red now, like they were emitting lasers. The Chick had a very good feeling that it was scanning her right now. She stepped back as Linkara-thing advanced on her, babbling fruitlessly in an attempt to bargain with the relentless whatever.

"OK, I-I didn't mean to interrupt you," she said. "Just… go back to whatever it was you were doing, and I'll keep mum about the whole plot to destroy the ship, okay? Heck, I don't even like these guys all that much anyway which makes it kind of a wash, really, so if I could just—"

**[****Be silent.****] **The scowling creature grabbed her throat with one of its black-gloved hands. It pinned her to the floor and held the drill level with her head. It pressed the trigger. The whirr of its bit was deafening. **[****Now hold still. This will only take several minutes…****]**

The Chick screamed as the drill came at her.

* * *

Film Brain knocked gently on the door to The Critic's room. He'd seen The Nostalgia Chick disappear into it earlier. It had been at least thirty minutes since then, and she hadn't come out yet.

"Hello?" he called. "Nostalgia Chick? Linkara? Anybody home? The Critic called a meeting on the bridge, and everyone's supposed to be there…"

There was an odd series of rather loud moans, followed by several muffled thuds.

"Nostalgia Chick? Is that you?"

Some gurgles, accompanied by heavy breathing, and then more moaning.

"Nostalgia Chick?"

Silence. Footsteps moving across the floor.

"Hello?"

The door opened, and Linkara stepped out of the room. He looked rather... strange. The large scowl on his face was still there, but his clothing was in disarray, and there were various indiscernible fluids on his gloves, and face, and neck. Film Brain sized him up quickly.

"Um… hey, Linkara," he said nervously, trying to see around his bulky crewmate into the room beyond. "Just thought I'd let you know there's a meeting on the bridge. Is The Nostalgia Chick in there, by any chance?"

**[****Yes,****] **Linkara replied.** [****She is not feeling well. I am getting her medicine.****] **

"Oh really? Poor girl. She seemed fine earlier…" Film Brain started for the knob, but Linkara shoved him back as he reached for it. **[****Don't enter the room.****] **

"Okay, no problem." He quickly shied away from the door. "Uh, Linkara… by any chance, are you guys doing… things in there?"

Linkara thought about his answer for a moment. **[****Yes. And we wish not to be disturbed for a period of time less than or equal to ten minutes,****] **he said.

"Oh! Okay, then. Sorry." Embarrassed, Film Brain began to back down the hall. "That's fine. I'll leave you two alone, then. It's your thing. I'm not here to judge. Just… make sure you use proper protection, okay?"

Linkara seemed puzzled by this remark. **[****I… shall.****] **He began to start down the hallway opposite Film Brain. "Where are you going?" Film Brain asked.

**[****I do not have adequate supplies. I am retrieving them.****] **

"Okay, great. Have at it." Film Brain retreated quickly down the stairs, leaving them to get back to their shellacking. He really didn't want to stay to hear the second round.

* * *

Downstairs, the rest of the crew assembled on the bridge to discuss how Spoony's rescue from the prison compound on Europa would go down. Everyone was there, everyone except The Chick and Linkara. The meeting couldn't commence unless everyone was present, so they waited. And they kept waiting for a period of less than or equal to ten minutes.

"What the hell is taking those two so long?" The Critic grumbled, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair and accidentally disabling and enabling the oxygen pump with each drum. As he did so, Film Brain stood next to him with the most uncomfortable look possible on his face. Sad Panda noticed it immediately; it was a look he'd seen many times before.

"Interesting," he said, scrutinizing Film Brain closely. "Your ramrod straight posture and rapider-than-normal intake of breath informs me that you heard two people having sex earlier. Really loud sex, by the looks of it…"

"How would you know?" Film Brain squeaked.

"I'm French. Trust me, we know," Sad Panda replied.

The Critic turned to Film Brain. "Film Brain, I sent you to inform them about the meeting. Are they coming or not?" he asked.

"Well that's a loaded question…"

"What?"

"Oh, nothing!" Film Brain backpedaled. "They're just getting busy… keeping busy! Keeping busy with some heterosexual—no, extracurricular—asstivities—_ac_tivities!"

"…Okay," The Critic said. "I was hoping they'd be kind enough to join us. I want to make sure everyone's briefed on what our plan is for Europa before we start going in. We don't want a space Vietnam here."

"So what is your plan?" Phelous said loudly from the back of the group. "So far on this voyage, I haven't seen much 'leadership' from you, Critic."

"The plan ain't no thing," Eight Bit Mickey replied coolly. "We get to Europa, save Spoony, see what's up with the Hole, then have a sexy dance party to cap it all off."

"I don't recall discussing plans for a sexy dance party," The Critic said.

"Are you saying we don't need a sexy dance party?"

"Well, I'm not ruling it out, but I'm just saying we need to have priorities…"

_{__Apologies.__} _There came an oddly seductive voice from the stairwell. Sad Panda and Film Brain stepped aside as The Chick and Linkara entered the room. The Chick was positively glowing. Literally. She was glowing from two ice blue portals that had once been her eyes. Her wardrobe had changed too, the pink sweater and sweatpants she'd had on replaced with a stylish silver mesh jumpsuit. On her right temple a strange C-shaped thing stuck out like a sore metal thumb. This new Chick looked just like the old Nostalgia Chick, but somehow she wasn't The Chick at all. She'd changed. _{__We were distracted by our… activities.__}_

"It's about time you two got here!" The Critic said. "What were you doing, anyway?"

**[****We were counting the approximately four hundred and twenty five point six two billion stars that comprise the Milky Way Galaxy…****] **

_{__…and using their positions to triangulate our location within the galactic spatial structure in order to properly calculate out the estimated travel time remaining to Europa,__} _The Chick finished. _{__By our estimates, we shall arrive within thirty minutes at approximately six-fifteen PM far-side Jovian time, which equates to four-thirty PM in Gaian Midwest Standard Time.__}_

"Dude," Joe whispered to Sage, "those two were totally doing it."

The Critic, baffled by the staggering explanation he'd been assailed with, waved it away. "Fine. Lupa, fill these two in on what Mickey said. The rest of you get back to your posts. We need to be on our toes for any threats when we arrive at Europa."

The meeting adjourned, and the group dispersed to their regular positions. Except for JesuOtaku, who was far too excited with the new toy she'd cooked up to worry about boring old calculations and danger and so forth. _"I hope there's plenty of stuff on Europa I can blow up with my thermo-detonator!"_ she cried happily, producing a small grey orb with a pulsing red stripe.

"Awesome! Let's play!" Sage said.

_"Go long, Bennett!"_ Jesu snapped the detonator to Sage, who caught it promptly as it exploded in a big yellow burst of light.

* * *

"Okay, Nostalgia Chick," Lupa sighed, approaching her new and improved semi-nemesis. "Here's the basic plan, in case you didn't overhear it while you were boinking—"

_{__The carbon unit known as Nostalgia Chick is now void,__} _The Chick said, her words accompanied by a strange clicking noise. _{__You will refer to me from now on by my current operating classification, Seven-of-Eleven.__} _She blinked mechanically, like a doll.

"Okay…" Lupa replied. "Anyway, Seven-of-Eleven, we need to—"

Both Seven-of-Eleven and Linkara retreated back up the stairs, as if they'd been deafened to Lupa and her desire to inform them of the crew's plan. JewWario came up Lupa as they disappeared from sight beyond the banister.

"Everything okay?" he asked. "I know you two are having a fight over Todd…"

"We are _not_ fighting over Todd," Lupa corrected. "It's something else. What's do you think is up with those two? They're acting like total robots."

JewWario shrugged. "Who knows? It's just the afterglow of sweet relations, Lupa. All you can do is wait for them to come down from the endorphin high. In the meantime, just sit back and bask in their sea of shimmering hormones." He took a deep breath. "Ahhhhhhhh, hormones…"

Lupa slowly backed away from him as he basked.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I just saw "The Review Must Go On" today, and honestly, I'm more or less ambivalent about (MAJOR SPOILERS) The Critic's return. _Demo Reel _had flaws, but it was slowly shaping up to be something good. All the angry fanboys bashing it didn't really help things either. I suppose the new release schedule and parameters will help make for better reviews, and _Demo Reel_ can just be a little aside that we can come back to in the future. I always had an inkling that Dupre was somehow connected to The Critic and the Hole. It must've been the hair, or lack thereof...

This isn't going to effect the rest of the novelization much; I might change a few things at the end, but other than that it'll play out exactly as I've written it. Stay readin'.

-Xoanon


	24. Part 3, Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Heading for a Showdown, Again**

_Starship two one zed NA-nine_

_A good friend of mine_

_Studies the stars_

_Venus and Mars are alright tonight. _

* * *

The technician monitoring the scouting equipment turned to Terl. "General, we've got a lock on The Critic's ship! He's about to reach Europa now, sir!" he said.

_"Damnable shitfaced rat, he's already got half a day's lead on us!" _Terl pounded the end table of the couch he was sitting on, which served as his new captain's chair. _"Push thrusters to full power and set a course for—"_

**"Set a course for the far side of the Jovian moons,"** Zod interrupted.

_"…I was about to say that. What are you doing?" _

** "Need I remind you that I am captain of this vessel? My ship, my orders." **

_"You were captain of my old ship. This is the new ship. I'm the captain."_

**"Preposterous." **

_"What? You owe it to me for turning it into Better Homes and Gardens!"_

"Jesus, not this crap again…" an ensign said, palming his helmet's visor in one hand.

**"I do not have time for this! Ensign! Prepare the photon lasers and go to yellow alert!"**

_"Belay that order! Ready the photon lasers and go to magenta alert!_

**"There's no such thing as magenta alert!"**

_"Yes there is, it's like an orange alert that's not quite as severe as a red alert!" _

**"Is there an 'annoying anus that won't shut the hell up' alert?"**

_"Yeah, it's called a 'your face' alert!"_

Zod smacked Terl across the back of the head. Terl responded with a double purple nurple attack on Zod's vulnerable nipples. From there, the "argument" deteriorated into a girlish slap fight, with neither side really coming out the victor. The crew of the ship looked on in dismay, and contempt, as their co-captains slugged it out.

_"Ow! Watch the neckbeard!" _Terl yelped. _"No hitting!" _

**"Relinquish the Kryptonian hair! Relinquish it!" **Zod shouted back.

* * *

Meanwhile, a few scant light-minutes away, the _USS Exit Strategy _was nearing its destination, having finally dipped within the gravitational field of Jupiter. On the bridge's viewscreen, the planet's majestic rotundity inched toward them, and the crew could begin to make out the individual bands of color on the cloud layers enveloping the planet. Several smaller colored dots formed a loosely knit ring around it. The Jovian moons. Europa was almost certainly one of them. Beyond Jupiter was a strange blue object which the cameras couldn't make out clearly just yet. The crew already knew what it was: the Hole.

"By God, there it is…" The Critic breathed, approaching the viewscreen in a state of near-religious awe. "Planet Jupiter. I never thought I'd see it with my own two eyes…"

He suddenly pointed at a large green blip on the screen. "There! There!" he cried. "See the sphere proper, decked like a king in its splendiferous emerald! Beyond it lays fair Europa, and Spoony, waiting for us to save him from certain doom!"

"Uh, Critic?" Marzgurl said. "That's Ganymede."

"What?"

"That's the moon Ganymede. Jupiter is the big orange one." She moved his finger to the obviously planet-sized gas giant floating to the right of the green moon. "You did study the planets in school, right?"

"…Course I did," The Critic said sheepishly. "Ganymede just looks orange from far away." He returned to his captain's chair as the ship, tugged along by the planet's immense gravitational force, began to slingshot around Jupiter. He ordered reverse thrusters on. At half impulse, they would decelerate the ship enough for it to "park" above Europa. From there, they would scan the moon for signs of the facility, then send down an away team to retrieve Spoony and head onward to the Hole, and perhaps even their destiny…

"We're nearing Europa-space now, sir," The Snob announced.

"Perfect," The Critic said. "Engineering, send down Probe-y Thing One."

"Sending down Probe One," CR replied. Seconds later, a tiny canister of various scrounged up instruments was sent careening away from the ship via launch from the dorsal torpedo tube. The ship slowed more and more, until it entered into a stable orbit around the moon. Ten minutes passed as the probe fell toward Europa's surface, gathering data which it transmitted back to Eight Bit Mickey at the super scanner's console. He analyzed it thoroughly, brow furrowed in intellectualness, then turned to The Critic to announce the probe's findings. "Captain, we're getting some pretty weird signs from Europa," he said.

"What kind of weird signs?" The Critic asked.

"Life signs. We're picking them up all over the moon." Mickey handed a chart to him, which he tossed aside. "The probe's instruments are picking up high quantities of oxygen, nitrogen and methane in the atmosphere, and bio-scans are registering off the scale."

"So that means Europa is alive?" Luke asked.

"That's impossible," The Critic scoffed. "Europa doesn't receive enough energy from the Sun to support life. It's an icy moon with a solid iron core. Always has been since its discovery in 1610 by Galileo Galilei." He turned to Marzgurl smugly. "See? I did study Jupiter in school."

"You forgot to mention that Europa is theorized to have subsurface oceans warmed by volcanic activity," she shot back.

"Theorized, not proven," The Critic replied.

"That's what the scanner says," Mickey said, shrugging. "We've also got a shot of the surface from the outside cameras."

"Put it onscreen."

Mickey obeyed, and Europa leaped into view. The crew gasped. It no longer looked very icy. It was green now, lush and verdant, with water flowing freely over its surface in large oceans. There was no main landmass, just a trickle of large boggy islands and islets hugging the area around the equator. Thin wispy clouds traversed its newly formed atmosphere. It was a second Earth, teeming with activity, brought to life seemingly by the will of God Himself.

"Look at that…" Paw marveled, pointing at the viewscreen. "Irrefutable proof of life on another planet. Wicked fascinating. This is going to get us so many Nobel Prizes!"

"What do you think is causing it?" Luke wondered.

"Probably the Hole," Paw replied. "The energy released from it is acting like a second Sun, causing Europa's surface to warm up and the growth of life on its surface to accelerate."

"Really?"

"I don't know."

"Enough exposition!" The Critic ordered. "Mickey, have our space scanners located the prison base?"

Mickey brought up the relevant data on the viewscreen. "Yeah. Chances are, they're holding Spoony at this one." He pointed a science pointer at a large black building on one of the northern semi-continents.

"Captain, as ship's counselor, I must warn you I'm sensing hostility from that moon," Sage said, leaning into The Critic slightly with a hand on his forehead. "We may face heavy resistance going in."

"Okay," The Critic began. "First of all, just because you hung out with those scientists down on Earth for like two minutes doesn't make you ship's counselor. Secondly, being ship's counselor doesn't give you psychic powers like Counselor Troi from _Star Trek_. Thirdly, you're an idiot."

"Don't doubt my premonitions, Critic," Sage chastised. "You are blind to the ways of those who can see all things at all times. I sense much cynicism in you…"

"Knock it off." The Critic waved his hand at Sage. "Say, I've got an idea. If you're so psychic, why don't you go down to the moon yourself and save Spoony with your psychic powers?"

Sage quickly put his hand to his head. "I'm… sensing that's a bad idea."

"Exactly. You've made the away team, Dionne Warwick. Congrats." He shoved Sage into a corner of the bridge and turned to Sad Panda, who was now wearing a tweed jacket and bow tie for some reason. "You're going too. Make sure he doesn't hurt himself."

"Why me?" Sad Panda asked.

"You said you were a doctor."

"No, I said I watched _Doctor Who _a lot. You misheard me."

"It'll have to do." Sad Panda sighed, and joined Sage in the corner. The Critic rose from his chair to join them. "I, of course, will lead the away team, as per my right as captain…"

"No way! That's it!" Phelous said, leaping out from nowhere to confront The Critic. "You're not using us as expendable pawns this time, Critic!"

"What? What do you mean?" The Critic asked.

"Don't play innocent with me!" Phelous snarled. "We're all sick of playing second banana to you and your ego!"

"You want to do what to my banana?"

"This is just like all those other times you've screwed us over! Kickassia, the search for the gauntlet, the Christmas party back in 2010, and so on and so forth! I'm sick of it! So, by right of the charter which you signed, I'm invoking the right to relieve you of your duties and claiming the position of ship captain and leader of the away team for myself!" He produced the charter and shoved it into The Critic's face. "So there!"

"Uh, Phelous, buddy?" Paw said, intervening. "Given what you're wearing, I don't think that's a good idea…"

"Why not?" Phelous replied, looking down at his bright red collared shirt.

"You know, on _Star Trek_? The guys with red shirts tend to…"

"…be captain, yeah, like Picard."

"Well yeah, in Next Gen, but in the Original Series…"

"Oh shut up, Wesley!" Phelous pushed Paw away. "It doesn't matter! I'm still invoking the charter to protect the lives of the away team! The Critic will get us all slaughtered if we go down there! Now step down or get an ass-beating, you pompous dick!"

"Okay, sure," The Critic said calmly. "You can lead the away team. It's your funeral, Captain Canuck."

"Excellent!" Phelous said, dismissing the parchment. "And, as my first decree as High-Crowned Captain of the _Exit Strategy_, I am further demoting The Nostalgia Critic to petty officer! Anybody got a problem with that?"

"Not really," The Critic replied, flopping back down in his chair. "I'll stay right here."

"Good." Phelous smugly stepped over to the officers of his new away team. "Sage, Panda, you're with me. We've got a Spoony to save." He stomped off the bridge, Sage and Panda following after him.

"I think we've created a monster," Marzgurl said, rolling her eyes.

"Eh. It was a pretty convincing coup," The Critic replied, putting his feet up on JewWario.

"I'll say," Paw agreed. "Did that fucker call me Wesley?"

* * *

On the other side of Europa, Terl's ship was waiting. An ensign perched at the sensors picked up teleporter activity. Three men were beaming down to the surface. "Sir!" he called to General Zod. "A critic away team is currently teleporting down to Europa!"

**"Excellent!" **Zod cried while pushing Terl's face into the couch. **"Go to red alert!"**

_"Grr tr crmsn alrt!" _Terl screamed.

* * *

In the facility, three bright blue beams of energy materialized in a dark storage room. The light shined off the refractory silver walls, and the thin microburst caused by the displacement of air molecules caused the room's cargo to be tossed about in all directions. When the beams dissipated, Phelous, Sage, and Sad Panda stood where they had once been.

"Alright," Phelous began coolly. "As your newly elected Supreme Squad Commander, I say we split up and look for Spoony. Now this may take us a few hours, so…"

"Uh? Commander Doofus?" Sage interrupted. "Behind us."

The three turned around. Behind them was a cardboard box roughly the size of a man. It was snoring. Phelous shrugged. "That works."

They ripped the box open. Spoony came tumbling out, unconscious. Sage knelt down to inspect him, putting a hand on his shoulder briefly. "I'm sensing very little life in him," he said.

"Stand back," Sad Panda said. "I am apparently a doctor." He put two fingers to Spoony's pulse for a moment. "Yeah, he's dead."

At that moment, Spoony sprang back to life with a yelp, his eyelids bursting open. The three jumped back in surprise.

"I thought you said he was dead!" Sage cried, clutching his chest.

"He's dead to me," Sad Panda replied. "As are you."

They propped Spoony up next to the box's remains with some difficulty. He was having severe tremors, which caused him to list to one side. Part of his face was drooping. His eyes had reclosed. "Spoony, Spoony!" Sage said, slapping his friend. "Just try to relax. You have shipping and handling sickness. It'll pass."

"I can't see…" Spoony groaned.

"That's probably because your eyes are closed."

Spoony opened his eyes. "Oh, hey!"

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know." Spoony rolled his head from side to side, as if it was filled with water he was trying to get out through his ears. "My mind's been feeling really crowded lately…"

"It's Ma-Ti. You have his character inside your brain. It's… complicated."

"That red-blooded son of a bitch," Spoony said. "It's his revenge for all those impressions I did of him…" "_Those were terrible impressions!"_ "Shut up." "_You shut up!" _"Shut up!"

The others were completely baffled, and somewhat afraid. Spoony had just been talking to himself. "Okay, what's wrong with me?" he asked.

Sad Panda shrugged this time. "You're nuts," he replied.

* * *

The Critic pressed the "talk" button on the chair's communicator repeatedly. "Sage, Sad Panda, Phelous, what's the status of the mission?" There was nothing but static on the line. He turned to Paw. "Why aren't they answering?"

"Communications are down, sir. Something's jamming our systems."

"Captain!" Mickey announced. "We're picking up another ship!"

"What is it?"

"It's… another house, apparently."

"What? Onscreen!"

The viewscreen flickered to life again. This time, the cameras were pointed at the gaudiest looking mansion ever constructed on Earth or off. It had at least thirty windows and five walls, along with several things that didn't look like either windows or walls. It was a mishmash of different designs molded into a monstrosity that floated on ominous pulsing red engines. It was a warship. There were cannons sticking out of gargoyles on the front stoop. By the looks of it, whoever was piloting it probably wasn't about to drop in for tea and biscuits.

"All crewmembers to your posts," The Critic commanded. The crew complied, standing at their stations with sharp readiness that any commander would find admirable. The Critic himself leaned forward in his chair to take the ugly floating bastard in front of them in. He wasn't scared. True, he was nervous—oh holy fuckballs was he nervous. He had never been so nervous in his entire life, not even at the Christmas recital in third grade where he was so nervous he blew chunks all over the stage in front of his parents, Rob, and the entire school. But he wasn't scared this time. He had a plan. He would deal with whatever this was, then order the ship to get as close to the Hole as possible. He would take CR's "lifeboat" out to it, alone. Judging by the Hole's potency even on Earth, it was bound to be a dangerous mission, and there was a good chance he wouldn't return. He didn't mind at all. It was for the best.

_ I'm coming, Ma-Ti,_ he thought.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The stage is set. The time is now. Phelous is totally a douche.

Oh, and Zod's lack of superpowers will be explained in the future.

-Xoanon


	25. Part 4, Chapter 24

**Part 4: The Battle of Europa-Space**

**Chapter 24: The Game of Cat and Mouse**

_Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a human being can indulge. It brings out all that is best and it removes all that is base._

—Gen. George S. Patton

* * *

"Paw, report!" The Critic commanded. The enemy ship was still hovering a good hundred thousand meters off their starboard side. They still hadn't attempted anything. Paw stood over the super scanner as it spat out its analysis of the strange new craft.

"Three bedroom, two bath, two car garage, siding could use a little work…"

"I mean who's on it!"

"Oh." Paw looked into the scanner again. "I dunno."

"Send out a message on the hailing frequency." At the communications console, Luke did as The Critic ordered. A stream of data beamed toward the opposing ship…

* * *

"Sir, The Critic is attempting to contact us," the ensign at the communication station reported.

_"Let him eat static," _Terl replied. _"It shall be his last meal…"_

* * *

"I'm not getting anything back, sir. Just static," Paw announced.

"That's weird," Marzgurl said. "Why wouldn't they try to contact us?"

"They must be scanning the ship for weaknesses," The Critic reasoned. "Science Officer Paw, go to spoiler alert!"

"Aye, sir." Paw pressed a button on his console, and immediately a small orange light above him began to pulse. The words SPOILER ALERT flashed on the console's screen. The ship was now in lockdown, shields raised, systems safeguarded behind triple-coded protection barriers and all potential inroads on its network deactivated to prevent any form of cyber-attack. They were locked up tight as a drum. There was no possible way they could be harmed now, aside from screaming death rockets launched at hypersonic speeds.

"Should I begin arming the photon red shells?" The Snob asked. "It is so cool that we have those, by the way."

"Amen. Thank goodness CR took ballistics in college," Luke replied.

"Not yet," The Critic replied, still staring intently at the mansion floating in front of them. "We'll wait for them to make the first move…"

* * *

"The Critic's ship has gone into lockdown, sir," the communications ensign said. "Should we raise our shields and prepare for attack?"

_"No," _Terl commanded. _"Our mole inside the enemy ship is conducting the operation as we speak. The fool won't suspect foul play until it is too late. After all, we are one big happy homeowner's association..."_

He stared at the tiny split-level floating in front of him on the viewscreen. This was it. This was the moment he'd waited so many long months for. On this day, above the moon of Europa, Ferdinand von Terl, last son of the planet Psychlo, would vanquish once and for all the most hated foe of his deceased people, The Nostalgia Critic, and claim his rightful place as lord of the man-apes on their pitiful planet Earth. He had vowed to savor this moment when it finally came, and savoring it he was.

_"Ah, Critic, my old friend…" _he sighed wistfully. _"Have you not heard the Psychlown proverb that says that revenge is a dish best served lukewarm with a side of mashed potatoes and that gravy that gets the little skin on top that gets stuck in your teeth? Well… it is very lukewarm with a side of mashed potatoes and that gravy that gets the little skin on top that gets stuck on your teeth… in spaaaaace."_

At this font of Psychlown wisdom, General Zod could only roll his eyes.

_"Oh bite me, it's fun," _Terl shot back.

* * *

On Europa's surface, the away team helped the lapsing in and out of consciousness Spoony to his feet. "Take it easy, buddy," Sage said. "We're gonna get you out of here and examine whatever's inside your head. Everything's going to be just fine from here on out. I can feel it in my giant—"

There was a loud cough. The four turned to see three black-masked troopers pointing very serious looking weapons at them. They were base patrol officers. They had been dispatched to investigate the disturbance in the lower storage levels of the facility. And they had just found three very unlucky interlopers messing with a top priority piece of human cargo.

"Wha'happnd? Is everythin' fine yet?" Spoony asked groggily.

"Um…" Sage replied. "Actually, I'm beginning to sense impending danger…"

Sad Panda slapped him. Hard.

* * *

He turned to unit two. She turned to him. She nodded. It was all that was necessary. She already knew the plan. It was in one of the first thought modules he'd installed in her neo-cerebral cortex. While the humans were distracted, they would begin the execution of phase two of Terl's so-called "master stroke". The devices planted around the ship would be activated on her orders. All she needed to do was input the correct command code on the device implanted in her once-fleshy wrist.

They were both in engineering. She moved behind him, pressing the polymorphic rubber coating on her arm. It slid back silently, revealing a silver tangle of wires and servos meshed into bone. The glowing blue keypad was there as well. She began to enter the pre-code clearance while standing behind him. He would keep her shielded from view so that the humans wouldn't catch on to them; a laughable precaution, to say the least. They were too imbecilic to have noticed him so far. Why would they possibly catch on now?

* * *

Lupa watched as The Chick did something behind Linkara at the engineering desk. She didn't know what was going on with those two, but it looked suspicious. Whatever they were doing was taking place too close to the ship's warp core to be anything good.

She elbowed Joe in the ribs. He turned around to face her. "Does that look suspicious to you?" she asked, pointing at the two.

Joe looked at the grumpy, homicidal-looking Linkara and sedated, robotic Nostalgia Chick fiddling around near the ship's most delicate pieces of equipment, and said:

"Nope. He always wears that brown hat."

* * *

**"Are you sure this plan of yours is going to work?" **Zod asked.

_"It will. Trust me," _Terl replied haughtily._ "You give these critics too much credit. They're clever, but not smart. Their brains are just piles of pop culture references and profanity. Peons with delusions of grandeur, that's all they are."_

**"Regardless, it's not their reasoning skills I'm worried about…"**

_"Oh stow it." _Terl brought up the communications beacon. _"Watch this."_

He pressed send. Immediately, a beam of information shot toward The Critic's ship.

* * *

"Sir, incoming transmission from the mystery house!" Paw announced. "It's…"

"Out with it man! What is it?" The Critic demanded.

Paw read the text of the message. "It says they're fellow critics."

"Really? From where?"

"From… the Food Network?"

"What?"

"That's what it says."

"Open our hailing frequency. I want to talk to these weirdoes."

"Yes sir." Luke twisted a dial on his console. A symphony of grating static crackled in the speakers, gradually being replaced by an even more grating female-ish voice.

_"Um… yes! Hello!" _the pseudo-feminine person said. _"This is Rachel Ray! We're from the Food Network, filming in orbit around the planet Jupiter! Uh, yummo!"_

"Okay…" The Critic replied, wondering if Phelous had secretly put acid in his coffee that morning. "This is The Nostalgia Critic of the _USS Exit Strategy_. State your business."

_"Oh certainly!" _the voice squeaked. _"We were out of sugar, and we were hoping we could borrow a cup of yours! It's a long drive to the store from Europa!"_

"What on earth are you guys doing in space?" Mickey wondered aloud.

_"Um…" _There was a long pause. _"It's a new show for the network called 'Cooking in Deep Space', and this is a very special episode, a crossover with… Oprah!"_

"Oprah?" The Critic asked. "Can we talk to her?"

_"Yes… one moment…"_

There was another long pause, some fumbling, a few hushed curses and sputters. Then, a rather husky imitation of a Chicagoan talk show hostess vomited out of the speakers. **_"That's right, girl-friend!" _**the semi-lady said. **_"You… win a car!"_**

The Critic shrugged. "Seems legit to me."

"I dunno," Marzgurl said. "If we give them our sugar, it means we'll have to disable spoiler alert and lower the shields to launch the delivery probe. It could leave us vulnerable to a sneak attack."

_"Pish tosh!" _The voice cried, eavesdropping on the conversation. _"Just send us a cup, and I'll show you how to make a divine chocolate tart in less than thirty minutes!"_

"Ooh! That does sound good!" JewWario said.

"Paw?" The Critic prompted.

"Scanning…" A few seconds at the console, then: "I don't know. Their sucrose levels _are_ normal."

"I'm not buying it. Blast 'em out of the stars," Mickey advised.

**_"Relinquish the sugar or my superior Kryptonian mandibles will disembowel your goddamn guts and chew upon them like a Soylent Snickers bar in Hannibal Lecter's candy factory!"_**the second voice ordered.

"I have to admit, that _does_ sound like Oprah," Paw said.

"We'd better do what she says," Mickey re-advised.

"Alright. Put some sugar in the laser banks and fire away," The Critic said to Marzgurl.

"Yes sir. Ready the delivery probe!"

"I said the laser banks. It'll get there faster."

"But pouring sugar into a blindingly hot matrix of laser crystals could render them functionally useless, captain," Marzgurl countered through clenched teeth.

"Do you wanna go toe to toe with the queen of daytime talk?" The Critic asked. "Lower the shields, woman!"

Marzgurl sighed. "Lower the shields and ready the lasers."

* * *

"Sir, the enemy ship is lowering their shields."

_"Excellent! Raise ours!"_

* * *

"Sir! The mystery house is raising shields!" Mickey cried.

"Told you!" Marzgurl said.

"That daytime talk show bitch!" The Critic spat. "Re-enable spoiler alert! Fire red shell torpedoes!"

"I can't!" The Snob panicked. "Something's fucking with our rail-launch system!"

"Try the lasers!"

"You turned them into Pixy Stix!"

"Re-raise the shields!"

"Too late!"

Suddenly: A loud pulsing noise. An explosion. Several explosions, all throughout the ship. Consoles short-circuiting, sparks flying, panels falling from the ceiling.

Emergency horns blaring.

Lights down.

Silence.

The _Exit Strategy _was a sitting duck.

* * *

_"Fire!" _Terl screamed. A single laser bolt rocketed from the ship's forward cannons toward the _Exit Strategy_. Its deflector shielding thankfully held, due to the backup generator kicking in at the last second, but it was still no match for roughly 200 megawatts of photonic energy. The bolt struck on the port side, leaving a deep molten welt in the siding, and the crippled ship began to list starboard. Direct hit. Another shot like that and it would be over. Terl watched as his prey floundered in front of his mightiness, and laughed.

_"Stupid humans," _he said.

* * *

"Report!" The Critic shouted from underneath his captain's chair. The bridge was in total disarray. The crew, various instruments, and anything else that wasn't bolted to the floor had gone flying. Mickey clawed his way back to the status console and gave the distressing news:

"Weapons systems offline, primary shields down…" his hands flew over the keys. "Oh God, we lost Dish Network!"

"Damn!"

"I know! I really wanted to catch _Game of Thrones _too!"

"Cinema Snob, can you get our weapons online so we can fire back?" The Critic asked.

"Um…" The Snob replied. "According to this giant flashing red light that means 'no'… no."

The Critic upturned his chair and pressed the contact button. The relay network was still working, at least. "Engineering, status report!"

Static, then a recording:

_*This is CR. I'm not available to take your call at the moment, because the engines are overloading and frying me. Please leave your message at the bloodcurdling scream.*_

From the bowels of the ship, there came a yelp of supreme pain. The Critic, running out of options fast, turned to his last recourse. If JewWario was a tenth of the pilot he thought he was, he would get them out of this mess. "JewWario, do something helpful!" he commanded.

"Well…" JewWario grunted, grappling with the ship's faltering controls. "If Nintendo and all those hours of playing _Starfox _have taught me anything… it's that I should… _do a barrel roll!_"

He jerked the wheel to the port side. The ship listed wildly to one side, cartwheeling end over end. Within seconds, they'd drifted over a thousand kilometers away from the gaudy mansion attacking them, sliding further along the orbit of Europa.

"Don't… do that again…" The Critic ordered, once again trapped underneath his chair. "Everyone alright?"

"I'm severely nauseous, captain," Mickey croaked, putting a hand to his mouth.

"Sir…" Paw announced from the communications console. "I'm receiving a message from the enemy ship. It says… they want to discuss the terms of our surrender."

The Critic, righting his chair, stared at Paw in disbelief. Deep down inside, a piece of him wanted to immediately reengage, to fight down the last man, to never give in to these jerkoff pretender critics and their fancy space house. But he also knew that the damage to the ship was too great to continue, and that if he fired back it would most certainly end with him and everyone else aboard dying of hot melty laser blasts. It was over. The _Exit Strategy _had lost its first battle.

And it was all his fault.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **The first shots have been fired. Part 4 is going to be a little different from what you saw in the movie, but only a little bit. I'm with Spoony; a few of the Europa scenes dragged. Expect more action and a lot of page breaks.

-Xoanon


	26. Part 4, Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: What Happens to Redshirts in the Original Series**

_No terms except an unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works._

—Gen. Ulysses S. Grant

* * *

The crew was silent. They'd all heard Paw's declaration. And they all knew the same thing The Critic did. They were in no condition to fight; the ship was hanging by a thread as it was. There was no debate about it. They would have to surrender.

"Viewscreen on," The Critic said. Paw did as ordered. The stony face of some guy in a black lycra suit loomed into view. He looked mighty pleased with himself. He was smirking. The Critic knew this man. He got up to approach the monitor, and swallowed hard. For him, accepting defeat was nothing new; he'd done it a thousand times before. But this time—just this one time—he'd actually hoped to win. Some impossible dream that was.

"General Zod…" he greeted. Zod opened his mouth to gloat, but was stopped.

_"No no no!" _there came a screeching voice from off-screen. _"I told you before this is my ship, and my moment of triumph! Get off the screen!" _The also black-suited Terl stomped into view, attempting to shove Zod aside unsuccessfully.

**"I am far more adept at diplomacy than you, Terl!" **Zod countered. **"Begone so that the adults may commence speaking!"**

"You!" The Critic cried.

_"Ah, so now the pitiful man-creature remembers his superior!" _Terl hissed. _"I must say I can't help but feel touched. Say my name, Critic! Say it, and let your humiliation be complete!"_

"…Tigger?"

_"Terl! Goddamnit, I just talked to you a few days ago!"_

"Curl, what is the meaning of this attack?" The Critic began.

_"Don't play dumb, you swine," _Terl replied. _"You know damn well what this is about. Vengeance! And honor. But mostly vengeance!"_

"Okay, fine. What are your terms for our surrender?"

_"Simple: You shall die by my hand, your ship shall be utterly destroyed, and your surviving crew shall be forever indentured to my service. Always has it been the Psychlo way."_

"But that's completely unfair!"

_"Methinks the lady doth digest too much…"_

**"That's 'protest', numbskull. Your reading of Shakespeare is terrible."**

_"Oh shut it, spandex!" _Zod clapped Terl on the back. He fell to the floor. **"These are the terms, Nestalj Kertik. Submit or you will be destroyed," **Zod said.

"Alright, but is there any possible way we can renegotiate on this so my crew doesn't have to end up as slaves?" The Critic pleaded to Zod. "I was the one who got them into this, and it's not their fault they ended up on the losing side. They shouldn't have to suffer any more than they already have because of me."

At this, the rest of the _Exit Strategy's _crew stared at The Critic disbelievingly. To hear that string of sentences come from someone like The Nostalgia Critic was so bizarre it threw the entire concept of his being into question. It was so strange, in fact, that a few of them simply couldn't believe it. It had to be the Hole talking. But then again, could it be real?

**"Your dedication to your crew is admirable," **Zod said, ponderously stroking his beard. **"Therefore, I shall spare them and your ship if you beam aboard this vessel and face the wrath of Zod..." **Zod's pant leg fluttered briefly. Zod sighed. **"And Terl."**

_"Mostly Terl!" _Terl called from the floor.

"And if I refuse?" The Critic asked.

_"Then you can say goodbye to the unluckiest member of your away team down below…" _Terl snarled, getting up.

The Critic's eyes widened. "You have my team?"

_"But of course! It's not as if they were difficult to catch!"_

"You're bluffing, Terl!" The Critic accused. "As if my away team would be catastrophically stupid enough to—"

"Uh. Critic?" Sage's slightly panicked voice suddenly emanated from the _Exit Strategy_'s communication's console. "Not to alarm you or anything, but we kinda sorta got ourselves captured. Sorry."

The Critic facepalmed. So far, negotiations were going about as well as he'd hoped.

* * *

The three guards had Sage, Sad Panda, Spoony and Phelous at gunpoint. They'd been standing like that for about ten minutes. No words had passed between them, not even insults. The paucity of conversation drove Sad Panda to finally break the silence, hoping their captors would shoot the breeze instead of them.

"Do you guys ever say anything?" he asked.

"No," one guard answered. He was promptly elbowed by his commanding officer.

"Sage," Phelous whispered through gritted teeth, "any orders from His Royal Dumbness on the ship?"

"Nothing. The relay cut out before I could get a response," Sage whispered back.

"Well that's great. What are we going to do now?"

"I'll try to use my psychic abilities to control them…"

"Again? What's wrong with you today?"

"What? Guards are usually weak-minded."

"You don't have psychic powers, you idiot! You're going to get us all killed!"

"Says you I don't have psychic powers."

"Yeah, that's because I know they don't exist! We should just try to overpower them somehow!"

"We can't!"

"Why not?"

"One of them has an uzi! He's totally invulnerable!"

"You're insane!"

"We can hear both of you, you know," the guard commander said. Phelous and Sage had been whispering audibly back and forth for the past minute or so. Sage, taking the opportunity, leapt forward and put his palm out dramatically.

"I think it's time for you to stop pointing that gun at us…" He waved his hand in the guard's face. "Hear my psychic command, soldier-guy. Obey your new master!

The guard smacked Sage's hand with the barrel of his rifle. Sage yelped and withdrew, holding his hand feebly.

* * *

"Listen, Whirl," The Critic said calmly. "You can't possibly be serious about this. The away team hasn't done anything to you. They were just trying to retrieve our friend from the surface. Let them go, and I promise I'll beam aboard your ship."

_"I am serious, Critic," _Terl replied gleefully. _"And your away team was attempting to steal a very valuable piece of our property! So to stay your insolence, and show you just how serious my intentions are, I will now order the guards to kill one of the hostages!"_

"You don't even want to haggle over this?"

_"Guards!" _Terl barked into his communicator. _"Kill one of the away team members! I don't care which!"_

* * *

On Europa, one of the guards drew a buck knife. "Alrighty, who wants to see what their insides look like?" he asked cheerily.

Sad Panda, Sage and Spoony all pointed at Phelous. Phelous sighed.

"Real show of loyalty, guys…" he grumbled as they backed away from him. "I can sure feel the love in this room."

"Odd name out, dude. Sorry," Sad Panda replied. The guard approached Phelous at a brisk pace, knife flaring in one hand. He leapt upon the hapless redshirt in an instant, delivering stab after brutal stab to his unshielded face, neck and torso. Blood spurted in all directions, and the anguished screams of a dying Canuck filled the air of the storage room. The other three, huddled together in the corner, could only watch in horror as their dear friend was totally dismembered. Finally, after a few wet coughs and gurgles, the screams finally subsided, and the body lay still on the blood-soaked floor. Phelous was dead. The guard, satisfied with his gristly work, sheathed his now-viscous knife and began to turn away from the corpse he'd created. As he did, it piped up:

"Oh… fuck…" it choked. "Why would you even do that? What's wrong with you? Are you aware of the pain I'm in right now? Jesus, is that my colon? Oh that's disgusting…"

The guard, shrugging his shoulders, redrew his knife and set to work again. He stabbed Phelous in the head this time just to be safe, popping both his eyes and slitting his cheeks open from ear to ear. Phelous screamed and struggled again, but it was to no avail. Finally, the guard firmly planted his knife in the half-dead man's chest, and after a single rattle of breath he expired. Again. The guard took his knife and stood back up. Suddenly:

"Oh fuck, that hurts like a bitch!" the corpse of Phelous spat. "What kind of asshole uses a knife?"

Once more, the guard stabbed Phelous. He redoubled his efforts, this time driving the ceramic combat knife so far into the poor innocent's flesh he had trouble retrieving it after the deed was done. The three survivors, now disgusted beyond measure, watched in disbelief as Phelous continued to protest up to his final last breath. The guard, wiping sweat and congealing offal from his helmet, rose for what he hoped would be the last time. It wasn't.

"Actually, that one wasn't so bad…" Phelous creaked. "I think I might be alright…"

The guard leapt back onto him, stabbing wildly with the knife at whatever was left of the victim to cut. Poor Phelous looked like a steak that had been tossed into a blender. Blood was everywhere, pouring from his every orifice and coating the floor in gory rivulets. The screams briefly cut out as the guard drove his knife into his windpipe, but redoubled in volume and fury once he took it out again. Finally, Phelous died a fourth death, and that was presumably that. By this time, the survivors were getting a little bored just watching him getting dismembered.

The guard stumbled to his feet.

"Okay… I'm dead now… Go away…"

The guard sighed heavily, and raised his knife.

"Shouldn't have said that…"

The guard cut Phelous's body into several pieces, and the organs into several more pieces. He cut the head from the torso, the torso from the arms and legs, and the fingers and toes from the arms and legs. These digits he cut into several more pieces before he finally heaped the whole miasma of body parts together and stomped on them with his black leather boots. There was little screaming. The three survivors shrugged to one another, wondering why Phelous had said anything at all.

Finally, Phelous was dead, his body mashed into little more than paste on the floor of the storage room. The guard, exhausted, dropped his knife and limped back to his squadron. Next time the order came through, he decided, he would just shoot one of them.

* * *

"Sage! Sad Panda! Report!" The Critic asked frantically. "What's going on down there?"

"I'm sorry Critic," Sad Panda replied un-emotively. "Phelous is…"

There came a wet slapping sound, and a choking wail. "Thankfully dead."

The Critic dropped his communicator. The force of those words resonated through him. Thankfully dead? Phelous was thankfully dead? No. No, it couldn't be. It had been his responsibility to lead them; it should have been him on that mission instead, but he'd refused his command, or had been refused his command by a pushy malcontent, instead choosing to hide in the safety of his ship far above the planet's surface. He flopped to the floor of the bridge, clinging to the leg of his captain's chair for support. Tears began to well up in his eyes. There was nothing he could do to stop them. Phelous was thankfully dead.

"Psychlo bastard you killed my flunky," he murmured to himself. "Psychlo bastard you killed my flunky…"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Slightly shorter chapter this time. I had a lot of fun trying to describe Phelous's dismemberment, considering you don't see anything but splatter in the movie. It's the little things sometimes that are the most enjoyable when you flesh them out...

-Xoanon


	27. Part 4, Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: The Counterattack**

_Necessity has no law._

—Latin proverb

* * *

A figure in red stepped up to the grieving Critic. "You were saying?" he said.

The Critic looked up. Phelous was standing over him, arms folded disapprovingly. The Critic leapt to his feet.

"Phelous! You're alive!" he said. "And… here for some reason!"

"Of course I am. I'm a redshirt," Phelous replied, tugging at the collars of his ensemble. "Every time one dies, another one comes right back. What, you think I'd forget the cardinal rule of _Star Trek_?"

"Huh. That actually explains a lot."

_"I hate to break up this touching reunion," _Terl interrupted. _"But I must remind you, Critic, that there are three other hostages on Europa, ones who are not so easy to resurrect. Do you wish for them to die too?" _

"Give me a minute to mull your offer over with the rest of my crew," The Critic said immediately. With Phelous returned the sadness was gone from him. He was forming a new plan.

_"In my magnanimity, I give you… sixty seconds to bid farewell to your valiant crew. Tarry one second more and I shall fire again," _Terl replied.

**"Sixty Earth seconds is one Earth minute, genius," **Zod grumbled.

**_"'Sixty Earth seconds is one Earth minute,'"_** Terl mocked. _"That's what you sound like, you know." _

"Alright. Deal's a deal."

_"Excellent! And don't you try anything funny, Critic! For whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the dings and vowels against the Wheel of Fortune, or to take arms against a seal of Scrabbles—" _The Critic cut the sound on the viewscreen. Terl continued on nonetheless, gesticulating wildly, almost slapping his counterpart in the face as he did so.

"Alright, we don't have much time," he said, turning to his crew. "What's our new plan?"

"Their plan." Mickey stepped up to The Critic. "Sorry, padre, we've got our own skins to save." As he spoke, Marzgurl and The Snob grabbed The Critic by his arms.

"Hold it, hold it!" he said, shaking them off. "We're not doing that! We can still beat these guys!"

"How? All our systems are down, our weapons are offline, and our engines are covered in CR's blood," Paw replied.

"Sure we're down, but that doesn't mean we're out!

"Well, what's your plan, then?" Phelous shot back. "Send me off to get killed again?"

The Critic thought for a moment, then slapped Phelous. "Paw, what do we know about these guys?" he asked.

"Well," Paw replied, dragging a rather large tome out from underneath his console. "According to the _Junior Woodchuck's Guide to Astronomical Combat_, the enemy chain of command is, more often than not, highly specialized and stratified…"

"Meaning?"

"Each officer in the crew is only trained to do one thing, and one thing only," Paw clarified. "They're versed only in their job and nothing else."

"So, that means that someone like their tactical officer…" The Snob began.

"…can only fire the weapons…" Mickey continued.

"…and no one else in the crew can!" Marzgurl finished.  
"Alright, we're getting somewhere!" The Critic pressed the talk button on his chair. "Engineering, everything alright down there? Is CR still alive?"

"I've been better," came CR's voice. He sounded like he was speaking through several coatings of bandages.

"Does the teleporter still work?" The Critic asked.

"Yeah, but it's heavily damaged. I can only put in rough coordinates and we can only beam two objects at a time. I'm working to get it back up to full capacity, but it'll take a while."

The Critic weighed his options. The damage to the teleporter meant they wouldn't be able to beam out the entire away team at once, so the one person left would either be stabbed or shot, or worse. Then again, they were still in the exportation range of Terl's ship, which didn't mean beaming was entirely useless. Coupling that with Paw's knowledge of the enemy's crew…

The Critic contacted engineering again. "Joe, would you like to shoot something today?" he said.

"Why yes, Critic. Yes I would," Joe replied, sounding rather touched.

"Good. I have a plan. Have CR try to get the teleporter back up to snuff. I'll join you in a few moments." The Critic started for the stairs to the upper level of the house.

"Where are you going?" Marzgurl asked. "We only have a minute before Terl starts firing on us again!"

"It'll only take a second, Marz," The Critic replied. "Desperate times call for desperate clothing. I'm going to put my battle armor on. Something… dreddful."

"You mean…"

The Critic smiled. "Oh yeah."

Marzgurl sighed. "Just don't take too long."

The Critic turned to sprint up the stairs. He was stopped by JesuOtaku, who was wearing some kind of magic gloves on both hands.

_"Wait, Critic!" _she cried. _"I have invented these power-enhancing energy gloves to help you against the enemy! They increase your body's natural strength by twelve hundred percent! I shall demonstrate their effectiveness on… Paw-Paw!"_

"Wait wha—?" That was all Paw could get out before Jesu knocked him clear across the bridge and into the opposite wall. The Critic was summarily impressed.

"Okay, thanks a lot," he said, gingerly taking the gloves from her. "I think I kind of like this crazy Otaku."

"I don't," Paw wheezed, having been driven bodily into the wall's plaster.

"Alright! Joe and CR, to battle stations! The rest of you…" he pointed at Terl, who was still frothing about wildly on the viewscreen. "Act like you're still listening to what he's saying."

He sprinted up the basement stairs. The crew obeyed, turning the sound back on. _"—To dye the sheep! To sheep, perchance to cream! Ay, there's the tub—"_

* * *

The Critic tried to sprint up the stairs to his bedroom. He failed to do so, crapping out halfway up the third flight of steps. Who had designed this house, anyway?

Nevertheless, eventually he made it to the room. There was a lot of sticky red stuff on the floor for some reason. The Critic ignored it, instead moving to the closet and pulling the door open. Inside, there lay his battle suit, the one he'd been planning to wear for Halloween the only costume he'd spared back on Earth. It was a good thing he had. He sorely needed it now.

He suited up, pulling on the fibrous jumpsuit and shoving the oversized helmet onto his head. It took him a while to fumble the shoulder pads into place; they were even bigger than the ones that had been on his N. Bison suit. After a few minutes, he was fully dressed, standing proudly in front of the bedroom mirror inspecting his new ensemble. The helmet covered everything but his chin in Plexiglas and die-cast metal. At his side was a Lawgiver, oiled and ready. He was ready too. Terl thought he could simply attack the _Exit Strategy _unimpeded, thought he could hold the away team hostage and kill Phelous without any penalty, thought he had already won.

Well, The Critic smirked,_ he_ would be the judge of that.

* * *

In engineering, a heavily-bandaged CR punched the coordinates into the teleporter's crushed, blackened console. "You guys ready?" he asked.

"Ready," Joe and The Critic said.

"Alright. Energizing." He pulled the "send" joystick. The two disappeared.

* * *

_"—methinks the play's the thing, wherein to catch the ball sack of the king!" _

Joe appeared directly in the middle of the enemy ship's technicians, just behind Zod and Terl, who was still overacting it up in front of the viewscreen. He looked around briefly.

"Excuse me," he asked the crewmembers. Terl and Zod turned to face him. "Which one of you is the ship's tactical officer?"

_"That'd be him,"_ Terl said, pointing to an ensign seated nearby at one of the consoles.

"Thanks."

Joe aimed his pistol at the ensign and fired. The bullet caught him directly in the head, spraying blood and little grey chunks all over the portrait screen. He slumped in his chair briefly, then fell to the floor, staining the carpet a deep greenish-brown. Joe smiled to Terl and Zod, then issued a command into his walkie-talkie.

"All finished, CR. Send me home."

"Reenergizing."

An instant later, Joe disappeared in a flash of blue light, leaving the enemy to gawk at what had just happened.

* * *

On Europa, the bored group of security officers was still holding the three remaining intruders hostage. They perked up immediately when they heard the unmistakable sound of a teleporter beam emanating from behind them. They turned to look, assuming Terl himself had come down to join the party. It wasn't Terl.

Instead it was The Critic, garbed in the strangest police uniform ever created. It was a navy blue bodysuit with enormous golden shoulder pads resembling eagle's wings, a fake badge stapled to one of them. He was also wearing thick black boots, large metallic gloves, and something resembling a golden codpiece strapped across his loins. A single gigantic pistol he carried in one hand. He looked very serious, a scowl traced across his jaw, which was the only thing visible from beneath his black, red and gold helmet. He looked at his foes determinedly, and said only one thing:

_ "I AM! THE LAW!"_

What followed was several seconds of the loudest, wildest shooting ever undertaken. The Critic fired round after round from his pistol, more rounds than any other pistol could possibly hold, but mere pittances for a Lawgiver. The security officers were struck seven, twelve, eighteen, twenty-five, thirty times in rapid succession, the bullets tearing though them like stakes through tissue paper. He kept on firing even after they fell to the floor, shooting at their dying corpses as if somehow that could make them even deader. All the while, the members of the away team stood there, bewildered in a manner no one had ever been bewildered in before.

_"GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAH!"_ The Critic put one last bullet in the head of the long-deceased guard commander. Then, he looked up at his comrades.

_"Curtz adjurrr,"_ he said.

"What?" Sad Panda asked.

_"I seh curtz adjurrrn," _The Critic repeated, with more emphasis.

"Quart's a jerb?" Sage wondered.

_"Curt eh adjurrn!" _

"Kurtz is a jerk?" Spoony guessed.

"Court is adjourned!" The Critic huffed, dropping his Stallonian accent.

"Oh."

The Critic tapped a microphone in his helmet. "CR, I've rescued the away team. I'm sending you their coordinates. Beam them out first, then me."

_"_Roger that. Get ready, you guys."The three huddled into a ball in the middle of the floor.

"Well, this was fun," Sad Panda said. "And traumatizing."

The teleporter beam enveloped the three members of the away team. They disappeared into it, leaving The Critic alone in the storage facility.

* * *

**"What the hell just happened?" **Zod asked.

_"One of the human swine just assassinated our technical officer!" _Terl replied. _"What does it look like?" _

**"Get another one!"**

_"We don't have another one!"_

**"What?"**

_"We only got assigned one! Besides, we had him, so why would we need another?" _

**"How does that make any sense?"**

Terl shrugged.

**"Well what are we supposed to do now?"**

_"You're the pajama wearing big shot! You figure it out!" _

**"We have to think of something! Every second we stand here, we're giving those critics a chance to get their weapons systems online and fire back!" **

The two paused. They looked at the ship's viewscreen. It was still on. The _Exit Strategy_'s crewmembers were gathered together on the bridge, listening intently to their conversation.

**"Nut balls," **Zod said. Terl quickly motioned to one of the ensigns to cut the feed.

_"Alright, people, do or die time! You have five minutes to find someone who understands our ship's weaponry!" _Terl ordered.

**"Or at the very least locate the ship's owner's manual!" **Zod added.

* * *

Immediately, the crew of the _Exit Strategy _sprang into action.

"Alright, people, we don't have much time," Marzgurl said. "Snob, Luke, you two work on getting the weapons back online. Paw, you try and fix our deflector shields. Everybody else, help out any way you can. We're going to beat these bastards if it takes us the rest of five minutes!"

"Hey, wait a second! " Phelous cut in, stepping up to Marzgurl indignantly. "I'm in command here! The Critic passed the buck! Everybody listen to me!"

The crew stopped to listen to Phelous's orders. He cleared his throat and said:

"Everyone… do what Marzgurl just said!"

The crew did as ordered.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Oh Phelous, you're so useless.

-Xoanon


	28. Part 4, Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: Further Engagements**

_Standing in the hall of the great cathedral,_

_Waiting for the transport to come..._

* * *

The door to the storage room burst open, and another squadron of helmeted guards spilled in, all of them brandishing gigantic guns. They fired immediately at The Critic, who fired back at them. He wasn't exactly the best shot, and most of his bullets were directed into the walls, the ceiling, and the many storage containers scattered all around the room. The guards kept firing, driving The Critic further and further back from the only exit. Bullets bounced off each of his shoulder pads with loud pinging ricochets. Another slammed into the metal helmet, sending him toppling backward into a forest of cardboard boxes. He kept firing back, ducking down behind them in a futile attempt to find cover. The guards were slowly disintegrating the boxes with a hailstorm of bullets. It wouldn't be long before he was totally overwhelmed.

"CR, where's that damn beaming?" The Critic yelled into his helmet mike. "Somebody tipped off the guards in the base! I'm pinned down here!"

"Working on it, Critic!" CR said back. "The teleporter has a high-energy variable matrix! It needs time to cool down and recalibrate between beaming attempts!"

"...Meaning?"

_"It won't work right now!" _

"Keep trying! I don't know how much longer I can hold these guys off!" This time, The Critic aimed his Lawgiver at the marauding troops. A few of them were mowed down by its automatic shots. Still more came. It looked as if half the base was bearing down on him all at once.

"CR! Hurry up!"

"Hold your ponies, Critic… I think this might work! Energizing!"

"Aha!" The Critic leapt up from his hiding place. Surprisingly, the assembled guards didn't use this opportunity to turn him into human Swiss cheese. He pointed at them and delivered the best possible one-liner for the situation: "Now ya see me, now ya don't!"

Nothing happened. The beam didn't come.

The Critic fired a single round from his pistol. It hit one guard in the helmet, sending him to the floor. The firing recommenced, and The Critic ducked back into his increasingly tattered hiding place.

_"CR!" _The Critic screamed.

"Sorry, the export projection system was clogged! Reenergizing!"

Finally, the blue beam appeared around The Critic. He teleported out just as the guards' bullets smashed through his hiding place. Suckers, he thought. He was free and clear now...

* * *

_"Status report!__ Have we found a replacement yet?" _Two ensigns approached Terl with a third ensign in tow. "This is Jerry. He used to flush cherry bombs down the toilets in the ladies room," one ensign said.

_"Did he do any major damage?" _Terl asked.

"I guess. He broke a few pipes."

_"Good enough! Congratulations, Jerry, you're our new tactical officer!" _Terl shook ensign Jerry's hand and turned to Zod, who was busy leafing through a booklet the size of an encyclopedia. _"Zod, have you found anything useful in the owner's manual yet?" _

**"'Congratulations on purchasing your new Illudium PU-36 hyperdrive-enabled Interstellar Transport,'" **Zod read aloud. **"'We hope that our spacecraft is fully capable of meeting your travel needs, as well as—'"**

_"You don't need to read the first page, idiot!" _Terl ripped the page out of Zod's hand and threw it to the ground. _"It's just filler! Skip ahead!"_

**"'After completing the instructions on the first page…'" **

_ "Oh goddamnit!"_

* * *

The Critic reenergized in the middle of a spring-timey pasture. Greenery stretched on for acres in every direction, and clouds marched double time across the horizon. It was daytime. The only reason that was notable was because it wasn't the Sun that was providing light. The Critic gazed up into the sky. The Hole shined in it magnificently like a gigantic blue lamp. He was still on Europa; the new Europa, to be specific.

"CR," The Critic grumbled into his mike, "I'm definitely not on the ship."

"The signal got corrupted. Sorry," CR replied sheepishly. "Just be thankful it didn't beam you into space."

_"I'm gonna beam you into space when I get back up there!"_ The Critic yelled.

"Take it easy, dude. We have a lock on your location," Joe said. "You're just outside the compound. Once the teleporter cools down, we'll beam you up."

"What do I do till then? Wait? I'm a sitting duck out here!"

"Relax. Our scanners say there're no guards out there."

Suddenly, several bullets whistled past The Critic. He turned to face the compound. Behind its chain link fence were several companies of black-uniformed soldiers trundling toward him. A few of them had even larger weapons than the security guards, ones bristling with laser sights and serrated bayonets.

"Oh wait," Joe chuckled. "The red dots are_ them_ and the green dot is _you_! Oh man, there are a _ton_ of guards out there! Lots!"

"Good to know!" The Critic sprinted away from the base just as the soldiers streamed out of its gates. Immediately they gave chase, sending The Critic scrambling for the tree line of the forest in the distance.

"Holy shit, there's even more coming!" Joe said. "The screen looks like a cherry pie!"

"Stop with the play-by-play and help me!" The Critic shouted. He fired back fruitlessly at the advancing line of guards. They kept coming, kept firing. A few bullets made contact with the armor, sending The Critic stumbling a few times before he righted himself and kept on running. Somehow, he didn't think he was going to get out of this with all his limbs intact…

* * *

"Cinema Snob, is the weapons system back online yet?" Marzgurl asked.

"Well, the popcorn maker's working," The Snob replied, fiddling with the dials on his console's controls for the thousandth time. "If they try to board us, we could use it to steam their faces off."

"Paw, how about shielding?"

_"Ah've got the energeh calibrator back online, cap'n, but it's gonna take us a while tah get 'er back up tah full powarr,"_ Paw replied in Scottish.

"Phelous? Any suggestions?"

"Oh, so _now _everybody wants to listen to me, huh?" Phelous said. "Well—"

Suddenly, an errant relay cable swung down from the ceiling and electrocuted him. He flopped to the floor, dead as a smoked salmon.

Marzgurl shrugged. "Clean up!"

* * *

Terl and Zod flipped rapidly through the increasingly impenetrable owner's manual. They had gotten no closer to reprogramming the ship's weaponry to accept outside commands. In fact, the only thing they had gotten closer to was their tempers' respective breaking points.

**"Curses! This is taking too long!" **Zod threw the book down. **"Put on the video tutorial!" **

Terl brought up the tutorial on the ship's computer. Immediately, it began to play in a language impossible for either of them to understand: _*Bonjour, et bienvenue á l'manuel vidéo pour votre Illudium PU-36 VQL-permettre Transport Interstellaire. Nous espérons que notre vaisseau spatial est adapté á tous routine quotidien, aussi bien que…* _

_"Mon dieu! The thing's in French!" _Terl cried.

**"Find someone who speaks the language of wine and sex immediately!" **

* * *

The soldiers drove The Critic across the grasslands. Ahead of a mighty torrent of black-suited bodies he ran, dodging bullets left and right, his mind racing to come up with a plan to get out of this mess. There wasn't one. He couldn't outrun them all; there were way too many of them. Eventually, he would get tired, or trip over his bulky armor, and they would catch up to him. And then—

The Critic gulped. Best not to think about that. He put his head down and ran faster.

Just ahead lay a small ravine. At the bottom of it was a flowing creek filled with melted ice water. The Critic sprinted toward it, aiming to jump in, figuring that his pursuers would have an easier time firing back at his pursuers with the cover of the ditch protecting him. As he neared its edge, he noticed someone was standing on the other side. It was a silver man, clad in a big grey helmet and carrying a very large bazooka in both hands. That bazooka was currently aimed right at him.

The Critic yelped, and leapt into the ditch. Just after he did so, the silver man fired, sending a rocket careening at the advancing line of soldiers. The missile detonated right in the epicenter of the battalion, scattering bodies left and right. The remaining soldiers, having lost sight of The Critic in the confusion, began to fire back at the strange shining interloper. Undaunted, he reloaded and fired off a second round, causing the surviving soldiers to go into full retreat.

When he noticed the gunshots had stopped, The Critic peaked out of the ditch. He looked up at the strange visitor who had saved his life. The visitor looked down at him.

**_I'll hold them off, _**he said. **_Keep going. _**

The Critic, happy to comply, jumped out of the ditch and continued running for the trees, leaving the strange silver man behind to fend for himself. Whoever he was, he was certainly brave, or at least crazy enough to believe he had a chance against an entire army.

He ran until he reached the shelter of the forest. The trees were surprisingly old-looking, even though Europa had probably only been active for days at this point. It seemed the Hole's power had sped up the natural growth of life on the moon as well. They resembled willows, only they had pine needles at the ends of their branches instead of little puff balls. The Critic ducked down behind one, holstering his pistol, and looked back out across the battlefield. The silver man was gone, and the black troopers were once again advancing toward him. They fanned out and started to sweep through the forest in pairs. One group came very close to The Critic's hiding spot, and he ducked down lower to hide in the shadows. They passed by without giving him a second look. He looked down at the super-gloves JesuOtaku had whipped up, really wishing that he'd asked how they worked before putting them on. He tapped his mike to reopen the link with the _Exit Strategy_:

"CR," he whispered, "how's the rescue coming?"

"We're almost there, Critic. Just be patient."

The Critic huffed. Easy for him to say. "I've got a couple soldiers on my tail. How do JO's gloves work? I'm going to try and take them by surprise."

"Good thinking, Critic!" Joe's exceptionally loud voice streaming from the speakers was enough to alert the soldiers to The Critic's presence. They turned around and trained their guns on him.

"Remind me to kill you later!" The Critic said, running for his life again. He ran back toward the grassy field, into a cluster of seven more soldiers. They started firing. Thankfully, at that exact moment, the gloves automatically sprung to life.

*PROJECTILES DETECTED. ACTIVATING BULLET DEFLECTION MODE*

The Critic's arms sprang up in front of his face, deflecting two bullets headed straight for his eyeballs. They deflected two more heading for his torso, one for his left arm, three for his neck. The soldiers kept firing, in twos and threes, in rapid bursts of hot streaming metal. The Critic's enhanced hands deflected every shot.

"Alright," The Critic marveled, confidence returning. "Now things are getting interesting!"

He charged directly at the soldiers, screaming like a banshee and dodging bullets all the while. One brought a rifle up to try and knock the wind out of him. The gloves responded:

*ENHANCED PALM STRIKE*

The Critic's hand connected with the soldier's torso instead, sending him head over heels onto the grass, where he lay unconscious. Another soldier tried to flank him on the right. *ENHANCED EEL STRIKE* The Critic's arm went pinwheeling backward into the soldier's face, throwing him to the ground. Two soldiers grabbed his arms. *ENHANCED SKULL SMASHER* His arms went together, sending the two careening into each other.

"Oh yeah!" The Critic shouted, getting more than a little drunk on his new power. "Who else wants some? How about you?" A few more palm strikes sent a contingent tumbling like bowling pins. He delivered a haymaker that sent a soldier flying over the treetops. Punches, smacks, pokes, and slaps were delivered in rapid succession, quicker than the eye could follow and almost impossible to block. The expenditure of energy was so great that the gloves' power supply was being rapidly depleted with each blow.

*BATTERY LOW*

"HA HA, THAT'S RIGHT!" The Critic yelled to his foes. "COME, PUNY HUMANS! COME AND BEAR WITNESS TO YOUR DEFEAT! I AM THE NOSTALGIA CRITIC, DEFEATER OF BLACK MASKED PEOPLE!"

*BATTERY DEPLETED*

The last soldier came rushing at him in a suicide attempt. The Critic grunted, sending a punch into the poor sap's stomach with all his might. He didn't move. The Critic tried again. Still nothing. He tried again and again, his blows becoming taps, taps becoming prods, prods becoming gentle nudges. The soldier, who was at least twice The Critic's size, looked down at his quarry disapprovingly.

"Uh… heh heh," The Critic stammered, putting a friendly arm around the man. "You know…"

He shoved the soldier hard enough to disorient him, and ran like thunder.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **If any of my French readers would be so kind as to double-check the lines I wrote in Terl and Zod's scene, I'd really appreciate it.

-Xoanon


	29. Part 4, Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: Battle's End**

_What is essential in war is victory, not prolonged operations._

—Sun Tzu

* * *

**"I can't understand a blasted word he's saying!" **Zod said. The video manual was still going. It had already passed through several descriptions of the ship's weapons and control functions that were completely useless, because no one on the ship spoke French.** "Terl, find the auto-translation feature this instant!"**

_"One moment, please… ah! Here we are!" _Terl said. He had dragged out the French-language version of the instruction manual. _"Engah-jer traduc-tour Fran-say!"_

Immediately, a very strange-looking bearded man wearing glasses and a white overcoat popped up on the viewscreen. _"Bonjour!"_ he said. "I am Benzaie, your French auto-translation narrator! To begin the lesson for understanding the French-language manual in French, please press _'une'_!"

_"That makes absolutely no sense!"_ Terl cried.

**"Why in Rao's name would we want to learn French in French?" **Zod asked.

* * *

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Film Brain said. The _Exit Strategy_'s crew was watching helplessly as the scanners showed the carnage on the moon below. The guards were once again hot on The Critic's trail.

"I'm trying!" CR replied, slapping the teleporter console. "The energy matrix is short-circuiting! I can get him off the ground, but I don't have enough power to reconstitute him up here!"

"_Can we still beam stuff with the beamy thing?"_ JesuOtaku asked.

"Yes, but only objects under a certain mass and density. Not people."

_"Ooh! Be right back!"_ Jesu sprinted off to her hidey-hole elsewhere on the ship. The rest of the group watched as The Critic went every which way on the screen, to all four ends of the island landmass he was on. The army following behind was getting bigger by the minute. It wouldn't be long before he was captured, or worse.

Jesu suddenly reappeared, carrying what looked like a sleek silver tea kettle with parts from a shop vac added to it in both hands. _"This is the OMG-WTF 1900,"_ she said proudly. _"It's a hyper-static energy weapon capable of delivering over 9000 volts of energy in one smackaroo! I shall demonstrate its power on… Paw-Paw!"_

"Hey I just remembered I have something else to do elsewh—" Paw was hit with a knee-knocking voltage of energy from JesuOtaku's weapon before he could get out of range. He dropped to the floor, shaking violently, clothing smoldering and plastic ears slightly melted. Joe, CR and Film Brain watched in awe as Jesu blew on the smoking barrel. _"And that was just a minor setting,"_ she said gleefully.

"I'm guessing that'll work," Film Brain said.

"Or it'll get The Critic electrocuted," CR said. "Oh well. Bombs away!" CR's redone coordinates hit the gun, disintegrating it and sending it down below. _"Hahaha, it tickles!" _Jesu laughed as the gun disappeared from her grip.

* * *

"Seriously, guys!" The Critic called to the army behind him as he ran. "I don't see why we can't just sit down and work things out! I mean we're all kind of on the same side here! We all want to know what's up with the Hole, so there's no reason we can't—"

A single artillery shell lobbed in his direction was enough to shut him up. He ran faster, and faster, crossing leagues of grassland and leaping over tiny rivers and creeks, failing to notice that the terrain he was allowed to trod was slowly growing smaller, and smaller. They were chasing him down a thin peninsula, the end of which formed a rocky promontory surrounded by the assumedly deep Europan sea. Dead end.

The Critic didn't notice his predicament until it was too late. He almost vaulted off the edge of the cliff entirely, sidling back from the edge at the last possible instant. He fell back onto the rough dirt and whirled to face the army behind him, which consisted of too many soldiers to count by this point, along with full detachments of jeeps, tanks, and a few autogyros. All these men and machines rushed to fill in the space between the peninsula and the greater landmass, cutting off any possible escape route that didn't involve a sheer ninety foot drop. The soldiers trained their guns on The Critic, covering him in several coatings of red dots. This was it, he thought. This was the end of his mission. The Battle of Europa was nearly over, and it was about to end with a very small massacre.

Suddenly, something materialized in the sky above The Critic. He looked up. It was a stylized tea kettle with parts of his shop vac attached to it. Gravity took hold of the thing and it began to plummet to the ground. The Critic stretched out his arms and caught it, a stray finger turning the setting on its dial from "default" to "over 9000". The machine burbled in his arms. Static electricity crackled from its tip. The soldiers began to inch back. The Critic, once again overwhelmed by his good luck, looked up at his foes and smirked.

"Shocking turn of events, isn't it?"

He pulled the trigger. A wall of white energy spurted from the gun, delivering a devastating blow to the assembled army and setting most of the troops in attendance aflame. The gun kept firing even after The Critic stopped pulling the trigger, disintegrating whole hunks of the forest, the grass, even the ground itself. In less than thirty seconds, an area on Europa the size of two football fields became a fiery hell-pit of destruction, with no chance of escape for anything that was caught in the focus of the unrelenting death-beam.

_Okay this is a little excessive,_ The Critic thought. _I kinda feel bad about the one liner now._

* * *

_"No no, push the buttons up here! The red ones!" _Terl said, curtly directing the new tactical officer's hands. _"I thought you said you knew how to work this thing!"_

"I said I knew how to flush cherry bombs down toilets! You misheard me!"

_"Alright, try the green ones. Maybe they do something—"_

There was a loud bang as a rocket launched from somewhere in the ship's belly. "Sir, all of our Super-Ultra Death Missiles just launched by themselves," another ensign reported.

_"Where're they headed?"_

"Venus."

_"Fuck. Someone's probably going to miss that." _Terl turned to Zod, who was still watching the French tutorial in disbelief. _"Zod! How's the video coming?"_

**"I have absolutely no idea what he's teaching me! He's just dancing around naked!" **Zod screen, Benzaie the French instructor was now in a white bejeweled thong, hips thrusting and swaying to the beat of some demonic club tune: YO/MY NAME'S BENZAIE/AND YOU KNOW THAT I'M ALWAYS KISSIN' GUYS/I GOT THE BOOGALOO FLU/DOIN' THE DUDES…

* * *

In engineering, Todd fiddled with something. He didn't know what it was, but Lupa had told him to fiddle with it to see if he could get it working again, and if fiddling with gizmos made her happy then by God he would fiddle with this gizmo until the end of time. He looked up. Linkara and The Chick were standing in the corner, not doing anything. They'd been doing that since the battle had begun. Lazy jerks.

"Hey, guys?" he said. "We could use a little help here. What're you doing?"

**[We are providing tactical moral support,****] **Linkara replied.

_{__Go team.__} _The Chick pumped a fist in the air jerkily.

* * *

On the bridge, Marzgurl leapt from station to station, the others keeping her informed of their progress on the console systems. So far, the enemy hadn't had much luck in launching a second attack. With Marzgurl at the helm, chances were they wouldn't. "Paw, divert all auxiliary power to the laser cannons. Luke, give me a status update on those photon torpedoes when you get them ready. Phelous—"

Phelous was lying on the floor, unmoving. A vacuum tube in the console he'd been working on had exploded and struck him in the head. A red mess streamed down its front.

"Clean up!"

The viewscreen clicked on. Terl was back, looking haughtier than ever. At least this time he didn't quote Shakespeare, instead launching directly into gloating.

_"Ha ha, foolish humans! I am pleased to announce to you all that we've got our weapons systems back online! And trust me when I say that your defeat shall be—"_

There was an explosion off screen, followed by something black careening through the background. Zod's voice cried out: **"Jerry? Jerry, no!"**

Terl sighed. _"Two minutes." _The viewscreen deactivated.

* * *

The targeting system was a pile of tasteful rubble. By some quirk of physics, Jerry had been thrown bodily from it into the opposite wall. Zod was kneeling over him and performing CPR. **"Jerry! Don't you die on me, Jerry! You have too much to live for, you hear me? Breathe, damn you, breathe!"**

_"I don't think that's helping," _Terl said. _"He probably needs to be taken to medbay…"_

"Sir! The Critic has been spotted on the moon!" an ensign reported. "He's managed to decimate our security forces. Holy crap, it looks like a giant skid mark..."

_"Impossible! Beam me down there! I'll take care of this idiot myself! Somebody look after weepy here!" _He pointed to Zod, who was now cradling the lifeless body in his masculine Kryptonian arms.

* * *

"Critic," CR said into the communicator. "Are you still alive down there?"

"Yeah," The Critic replied. "But I can safely say everything else isn't. Whoever built this gun is a fucking sadist."

"You got 'em all? Awesome!" Joe said.

"We think we've got it figured out. Are you ready to come home?"

"Oh gee, let me think about tha—_of course I'm ready!_"

"Energizing!"

On the surface, The Critic disappeared.

* * *

On the surface, Terl reappeared.

_"To me, Critic! Let us do battle and determine once and for all who… holy crap."_

The entire peninsula was a wasteland. Countless swathes of burned grass smoldered, sending smoke into the air. Fires raged in the forest beyond. Scattered to and fro lay the immolate corpses of countless soldiers, the hulking husks of tanks, and the downed bodies of copters. Nothing moved. The whole place was as silent as a very large graveyard.

* * *

A flash of blue, and The Critic was home.

Or, to put it more accurately, he was slightly closer to home. CR's calculations had failed to take into account orbital rotation, and thanks to the time differential between the two ships' orbits The Critic was now standing on the bridge of Terl's ship, surrounded by more trained troopers and a recomposed General Zod, who noticed him immediately.

**"Fill his dangly bits with holes!" **Zod commanded. The troops trained their guns on him.

"CR!" The Critic screamed into his mike. A second later, the beam came, teleporting him out just as the first shots were fired. He didn't get very far, reappearing a second time in the other corner of the room.

"Oh come on!" The Critic sighed. "CR!"

The beam came again, and he disappeared. Seconds later, Terl's return trip put him in the same place The Critic had been. There was no time for the troopers to correct.

_"Guys, you will not believe what that bastard Critic did to our… aaaaugh!" _Terl ducked as the wall behind him was peppered with bullet holes.

* * *

Finally, The Critic reassembled in the engineering quadrant of the _Exit Strategy_. The others, Joe, CR, Film Brain, and JesuOtaku, were surprisingly happy to see him, and rushed in to crowd around the confused veteran and give him congratulations for surviving the fight below.

"Critic! You're alive!" Film Brain cried, glomphing The Critic and knocking his glasses askew.

"Nice job, man," Joe praised, patting him on the back. "We thought you were a goner for sure!"

_"Did the weapons help, Critic? Didthey didthey didthey?"_ Jesu asked, bouncing up and down.

"One question at a time, please," The Critic replied. "First things first: where's CR?"

"No need to thank me, Critic," CR beamed, stepping up to his boss. "It was all in a day's work." The Critic slapped him. Before anything else could occur, a red beam of light appeared in the corner. Out of it stepped a very angry looking Terl carrying what looked like a phaser crossed with a light gun.

_"I have you now, Critic!" _he shouted. _"And rest assured, you're going to pay for your slaughter of those troops on the planet below! Never in my commanding career have I seen such brazen—"_

Terl's indignant speech was silenced by three MP-5s to his face. He turned to see that it was Joe, Lupa and Film Brain holding him at gunpoint. The Critic said nothing, only staring tiredly at his opponent. Terl briefly weighed his options, then whispered into his communicator. _"Beam me back." _There was another red light, and Terl disappeared.

"Well that was… weird." Film Brain turned to CR. "Don't we have the shields back up?"

"I kind of had to divert power from them a little to get the teleporter running," CR replied, turning to The Critic in anticipation of punishment. "If you're going to hit me again, try not to break my glasses."

"Don't worry about it," The Critic said, looking tired but satisfied. "That first one was just for general incompetence. Besides, I've got bigger fish to fry." With that, he turned and walked out, discarding parts of his armor as he went.

* * *

Terl reappeared on the bridge just as The Critic walked onto his. He was back in his shirt and tie, and was leaning on someone they'd never seen before. He looked tired, but happy. The Battle of Europa-space was over. He had fought them and won.

"Guess what, buckaroos?" he said, addressing both Zod and Terl. "This is co-captain Cinema Snob, and he's got something important to tell you. Tell 'em:"

"Our weapons are back online," The Snob said.

"Our weapons are back online," The Critic repeated.

"And I know how to use them," The Snob continued.

"He knows how to use 'em!"

"Unlike the idiot who fried our laser banks by pouring sugar into them."

"Fire when ready!" Terl, fuming madly, dashed to the teleporter console. Everything The Critic and Snob had just said reverberated in the hollow space between his ears: weapons online, know how to use them, fire when ready, idiot, sugar, laser banks. His hands flew across the keys, typing in coordinates slightly altered from the ones he'd just used. They may have lost the battle, he thought maniacally, but The Critic was about to lose the war. Let them see just how lost they were without a tactical officer to man their weaponry. He pressed the "execute" key. The Snob disappeared from the enemy bridge, sending The Critic reeling out of frame. "No!" somebody cried. An instant later, he was in their grasp.

**"¡Vámonos!" **Zod ordered. Immediately, the ship turned tail and deployed its hyper engines. Soon, they were rocketing away from Jupiter's orbit, leaving the _Exit Strategy_ far behind.

"What the hell? What's going on?" The Snob asked, confused.

_"Oh, nothing much," _Terl replied. _"We're just taking you hostage. No big deal."_

The troops trained their guns on him.

"God, shoot me," The Snob grumbled. They would have done so if Terl hadn't stopped them.

* * *

"Guys?" The Critic asked from the floor, his face muffled by the carpet. "What just happened?"

"Terl and Zod took The Cinema Snob!" Luke said.

"It was the shields. We couldn't raise them in time…" Marzgurl said. "I'm sorry, Luke."

"Can we pursue?"

"The warp drive is still down," CR replied. "It'll take some time."

"Terrific. What else can go wrong?"

Spoony, who had been lapsing in and out of consciousness while on the bridge with the away team, fell from Sad Panda's side onto The Critic. For a moment, the crew stood there looking at the man pile in the middle of the floor. Phelous smirked.

"Christ. I hate sci-fi," The Critic said.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** And that's the end of Part Four. So many page breaks...

Since I haven't heard much opposition, I've decided to keep the two "books" of To Boldly Flee's novelization intact. Look for the first chapter of Part Five on Monday. I will try to finish the story with our usual update schedule if schoolwork doesn't get in the way. If not, we may have a little delay. We will see.

-Xoanon


	30. Part 5, Chapter 29

**Part 5: Upsides and Downsides**

**Chapter 29: Overheard in Deep Space**

_Plans are useless but planning is indispensable._

—Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower

* * *

_[Greetings, Terl. I—whoa, what have you done with the place?]_

_ "We've made some renovations, my master. Do you like it?" _

_ [I do. Very homey, especially that plant in the corner. Really ties the room together.]_

_ "Thank you. Anyway, about the Spoony One on Europa—"_

_ [You lost him to The Critic, didn't you?] _

_"Uh… yeah, we lost him." _

_[It is of no concern.]_

_"What?"_

_[I said it matters not.]_

_"I heard what you said. I was just wondering why it's of no concern. Our scientists didn't even get a chance to analyze him, and the damage The Critic caused to our ranks is catastrophic enough to—" _

_[Calm yourself, my apprentice. Everything is unfolding as I have foreseen. The critics are sashaying right into our trap.] _

_"How? This is kind of a major setback—which, I may add, is totally Zod's fault." _

_[The Spoony One was merely a pawn in my game of wits, Terl. I don't need to keep every pawn; I have like seven more pawns I can use, it's not like they're that valuable. All that matters in the game is victory. When one pawn is sacrificed, it enables a more important piece to move into a better position, like a rook or a bishop or something. The critics are too late to realize their folly. They have moved their king into danger, and because of that miscalculation they will fail.] _

_"I still don't follow you."_

_[General Zod informed me about your new prisoner.] _

_"What? That son of a bitch-bastard! We agreed to take your calls together!" _

_ [Wait, where is he anyway?]_

_ "In the bathroom. He's still a bit torn up over Jerry dying."_

_ [Who?]_

_ "He was our tactical officer. Okay guy, I guess. Not that good with—" _

_ [Never mind. You have the prisoner secured, correct?] _

_ "Yes, my lord. We're keeping him in the brig. Should we interrogate him first or move straight to the torture?"_

_ [Don't.]_

_"That's not really a command, sire."_

_[Place him in suspended animation and have him delivered to me. He is essential to the completion of my plan.] _

_"Eh. You're the boss. Overnight or express delivery?"_

_[Surprise me. You needn't worry about our recent defeat, Terl, for we have gained far more than we have lost. I have studied this prisoner thoroughly, and he is quite promising. Soon we shall possess the dark knight which my grand strategy requires…]_

_"You know, my liege, the chess metaphors get a little tiresome after a while."_

_[Oh bite me, it's fun.]_

Last Angry Geek cut the link to The Executor's communications grid. He stroked his beard ponderously with one hand, keeping the other perched at the yoke of the starship he was piloting. He kicked himself for not recognizing the twist earlier. Of course Spoony's rescue wouldn't harm The Executor—the villain of the story always had a backup plan in case his first one failed. Even a novice practitioner of the metatextual arts would've seen that one coming. It was too late to stop Terl now. The far edge of the Solar System was his destination; he was already a quarter AU's distance from Europa and rapidly gaining speed.

Flustered, he recited the litany, the one that had always guided him through the mire of even the worst story: the dark side of the Plot was simplistic, predictable, cliché. If one could recognize its formulas, one could defeat it easily. But even his old master's mantra couldn't console him for long. The disturbance in the Plot was growing. It was something much more ominous now than the minor tremor of three beats in succession he'd felt earlier. Wherever he felt its presence the story was out of alignment, sometimes situated leaps or bounds from its normal continuity. His Cliff's Notes were inaccurate, his memory of TVTropes useless, his arc charts impossible to follow. It was almost as if the Plot itself were beginning to…

Last Angry Geek shivered. He hoped that wasn't the case. That wouldn't be good, not for anyone.

He focused on his next move. The Cinema Snob was now in the mix as a major player rather than a minor character. That made a little sense; his tenure as co-captain on The Critic's ship had provided him with the opportunity for a greater role. But what could The Executor possibly want with him? He sifted through his mental files on The Snob, whom he had grokked at a convention back in 2009 to help find his keys. He was a critic, and a good one at that, specializing in low-grade pictures unfit for even direct-to-video releases. Half-baked concepts and ludicrous plot ideas were his bread and butter. He was also a devoted motion picture enthusiast, and had his own highly entertaining and exploitative movie in the works. It was an independent film with no studio backing…

Ah. So that was the game, then.

Last Angry Geek opened his eyes, punched a set of buttons on his operating console and adjusted the wiry headset wrapped around his temple. Behind the cockpit sat Q3-D7, his droid navigator and character opposite. Every member of the Order was partnered with a character opposite on missions to take full advantage of any wacky situations that could potentially ensue on the way. That directive didn't make their interactions any more pleasant; Q3 was flighty, womanizing, and had a penchant for low-grade ethanol fuel and smutty jokes. Nonetheless, Last Angry Geek opened a communication link and spoke:

"Q3, set a new course," he said. Q3 beeped in protest.

"We're following the prisoner," Last Angry Geek replied. "Spoony is in The Critic's hands now. He's no longer the one being threatened by The Executor's goons."

More beeps, and a whirr.

"Yes, precisely. We're hitting him where he lives."

There was a click, then three deets.

"The Hole can wait. The Order is keeping the peace on Earth as best they can."

More beeps, a whirr, another set of beeps and a whistle.

"No, I'm not going to die."

Beeps and clicks, and a whistle.

"Because I know that it's coming. I won't die because I already know the twist."

A whirr, then two clicks.

"I'm not giving you my lava lamp. I already promised it to Bill."

A beep and whistle in unison.

"What? I did not!"

A click, a whirr, a beep.

"Oh you're just bitter because I didn't buy that iPad you were flirting with."

Click, beep, click, whistle.

"I already told you, she was a whore!"

Whistle, beep, click click.

"You leave my ex-wife out of this!"

Beep beep, click, whirr.

"I'm not introducing you to my coffeemaker, even if she sent you those nude photos! You'd just end up hurting her!"

Whirr.

"Well your mother's right! You need to put yourself out there more! Try Match dot com, you'd be surprised!"

Q3 fell silent after that, but not without plotting the ship's new coordinates. Last Angry Geek gazed at his instrument panel. His destination lay about half an AU off, somewhere in the orbit of Neptune. The Executor's dreadnought was slowly inching closer to the unsuspecting planet Earth, its latest conquest. Not if he could put a stop to it first.

He put both hands on the yoke and yanked back. The ramjet kicked in, pushing the tiny snub fighter forward on a cushion of hydrogenated exhaust. He closed his eyes and recited his mantra again, girding himself mentally for the battle that was to come. It wouldn't be an easy one; The Executor had tremendous power. The man had toppled an entire galaxy by sheer force of will alone, and the crooks, cretins and cads of countless worlds had sworn undying fealty to him and his evil. He was deceitful, he was manipulative, and most alarming of all he was persuasive. Even the strongest-willed, most independent thinking person alive would give his deadly silver-tongued propositions a second thought.

That meant The Cinema Snob was in deep trouble.

* * *

An hour after the battle, Terl managed to find sanctuary within his quarters to deliver another message to his ally hidden onboard the _Exit Strategy_. He felt like he was on top of the galactic plane. The battle had been a complete success. Even though Europa had been compromised and The Spoony One had been lost, a new knight or pawn or whatever had been gained, and the juggernaut of The Executor would continue on unhindered. The news he heard from the android earlier was comforting as well. The Critic and his idiot allies were still floundering, trying desperately to stop their engines from overheating and dooming them all to a slow drift through the outer Solar System. By the time they got their act together he would be long gone. It was a total victory, and it felt grand. No, it felt more than grand. It felt sublime.

He opened the link on his communicator. _"This is General Terl calling frequency dark QX sixty-three. Go ahead." _

**[****Phase two of the plan is complete,****] **the android replied. He sounded less than thrilled. Terl didn't care.

_"Excellent work," _he said. _"The Critic didn't suspect a thing the entire time, and now his ship is completely destroyed and we have his tactical weapons officer in our clutches! Yet another brilliant battlefield victory from General Ferdinand von Terl!"_

**[****Your maneuvering on the battlefield was passable at best, ****_General_****,****] **the android muttered, his synthetic voice lacing this last word with a highly detectable note of sarcasm. **[****The human called Spoony is now in The Critic's hands. Risk assessment indicates that this allows for a higher probability of The Critic achieving his primary objective of discovering the source of the Hole's power.****]**

_"The Critic shall have no time for his idle pursuits," _Terl declared. _"Soon he and his comrades will be defeated, with or without the knowledge The Spoony One contains! We have a new devotee now, and with his aid the plan my master has so deviously devised shall continue unimpeded, as will mine!" _

**[****I grow impatient with these plans, Terl,****] **the automaton growled. **[****The longer your inanities drag on, the longer they keep me from ****_my_**** goal. I fail to see the need for any further subterfuge—the Critic and his cohorts are imbeciles, pathetic piles of organic slop. They are no match for you or The Executor, and it would be better for me to destroy the ship now rather than have you waste your ammunition on it later.****]**

_"Oh come now. Where's the fun in random slaughter?" _Terl asked. _"A top-notch enemy like The Critic deserves to be treated to the full range of my physical, mental and emotional tortures! Besides, it's not like your magic glove is going anywhere anytime soon." _

**[****You promised me a solution. Tell me the secret to the gauntlet or I will do away with pretense entirely and blow this ship to bits myself.****]**

_"Destroy the ship now and you may consider the pact between us moot. You will never be given the secret to unlocking the power of your precious haunted glove should you deny me my chance at all-encompassing revenge. I play the long game, rust bucket, and as long as you are in my employ I expect you to do the same." _

The android was silent for a moment. Then, there was a loud crunching noise. Terl smirked. It was satisfying to know a "superior" robot was still capable of being outsmarted by a lowly organic life form. That ought to let him know what his kind's place in galactic affairs was. Things would get even sweeter later. The fool had no idea what was coming…

**[****Very well. Awaiting further orders.****] **

_"Excellent. Maintain radio silence until I contact you again. Phase three of the plan will commence on the sorrow…"_

**[****Morrow, you imbecile.****]**

_ "Whatever!" _

* * *

Things were bad. Things were worse than bad. They were crazy. They were crazy because everywhere on Earth the people lived in fear, more fear then they had been accustomed to live with normally. It wasn't fear of anything they'd come to expect; not fear of war or terrorists, of corrupt politicians, the economy, environmental depletion, or any of the other things they'd been slapped in their emotional faces with throughout the past decade. Yet this new, ultimate fear was somehow at the root of all those horrible things at once, a nightmarish catch-all of unease distilled into its purest form. It was fear of uncertainty. No one knew what was going to happen next.

Every day, there were more headlines: five hundred foot high statue of Harry Truman appears in Gobi Desert, Lake Tahoe refilled with cranberry juice, Dakar now named Kadar. The strange events that had begun with the first appearance of the Chicago Orbs were spreading all across the globe, and getting stranger. The entire world was a boiling cauldron of indeterminacy, with seven billion people trapped within its briny, stew filled depths. Things were no longer solid. They were semi-solid-fluid-gaseous, as well as all the other states of matter that usually only occurred in particle accelerators, and there was nothing one could do but wait until something weird happened, then react to the weirdness accordingly.

The riots continued, resulting in hundreds of injured people and millions in property damage. Looting and vandalism became international pastimes. Roads across borders were clogged in both directions. Everyone was trying to get out, but there was nowhere to go. The economy belly flopped. Guns, gold and rutabagas became the currency of choice in some areas. People everywhere flocked to churches, until all the Anglicans somehow became invisible. Then everyone opted to just stay home and hope for the best. Scientists poured over mounds of meaningless data. Psychics and fanatics declared the end times had come seven months early. Lawmakers did nothing.

Little by little, the world began to lose its shit.

* * *

It heard. It heard the mindless panic of the human race on Earth. It heard the plans of The Executor and his lackeys concerning their insignificant ball of power. It heard the lamentations and anguish of an entire galaxy in chains. It didn't care. All that mattered at this point was the seemingly worthless man within the tiny spaceship steaming away from it at kilometers per second. He was getting away. He couldn't get away. He wasn't going to get away. It wouldn't let its prize be lost so easily.

_Critic… _it said, its ethereal voice steadily rising. _Critic…_

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Part 5 fell into place almost immediately after I started writing it. Every chapter moves along splendidly, the action keeps building, and some parts are actually funny. This particular chapter was a little tricky to get up to the right word count, but after moving some later stuff around I got into the right groove. There's some really good stuff involving The Snob and (spoilers) Clod later on. I have a feeling you guys will really like it.

-Xoanon


	31. Part 5, Chapter 30

**Chapter 30: The Dual of Doubts**

_He who dallies is a dastard, he who doubts is damned._

—Attributed to George McDuffie

* * *

Luke sat alone at the table in the kitchen, watching the endless recesses of space drift by outside the window. He was sad. That's all there was to it. He was very, very sad. The main reason why he was sad was the fact that he'd been unable to stop his teacher—his _friend_—from being abducted right in front of him by space douches. The Cinema Snob had disappeared from the bridge entirely seconds after The Critic's return from the surface of Europa, the victim of an enemy teleporter carefully aimed. It had happened so fast; like a bullet from an invisible gun. It wasn't right. He should've been able to stop it. It made him angry, distressed, and angst-ridden, but mostly it just made him sad that he'd been so powerless when The Snob had needed him most.

And he knew that wasn't right. He knew he should be doing more to help, to get the ship back into fighting shape again, and yet here he was, sitting at the kitchen table looking out at nothing. He'd been here for ten minutes, that big black emptiness outside the ship making him even sadder all the while. He looked down at the table. There were little droplets of water on it. That was somehow worse than the big black emptiness. All he could seem to think about was the many ways in which he was inadequate to serve as The Snob's replacement. Even with his tutelage, Luke still knew less than half of what The Snob had about being the co-captain, and even less than less than half of what he knew about movies, cinematography and the art of filmmaking. His training was incomplete. That doubt was the gateway for even more obtrusive and unwelcome thoughts: What if they couldn't get The Snob back? What if Terl and that Zod guy were interrogating him? What if they could never get back to Earth? What if…?

He shook his head, trying to put these horrible thoughts out of his mind, and yet they still kept coming back, reinforced by an overwhelming reality. The Snob was gone, and there was little else they could do about it other than chase the enemy hopelessly across the farthest reaches of the Solar System. They'd taken off full speed after the retreating Terl as soon as the ship was able, but the damage to its engines was too great to sustain anything above three-quarters impulse for more than twenty minutes at a time, leaving them parsecs behind. They would never catch him. Super-Captain Phelous hadn't ordered full reverse yet, but he would, probably somewhere around the orbit of Uranus to keep morale up.

_Stop it, _he told himself angrily. _You can't keep acting like a scared little kid. You're better than this. You're Luke Mochrie, son of Colin Mochrie. You're a critic, an internet warrior, and you're the apprentice to one of the best pseudo-filmmakers to ever live. Here's what you're going to do right now: you're going to get up, find the others and help them to get Cinema Snob back. C'mon. Up and at em, buddy, let's go. _

This rousting pep talk, although it served to make Luke feel a little better, failed to galvanize him into more appropriate action. He continued to sit there. After a long while, Film Brain entered the kitchen. Luke raised his head slightly, to acknowledge his erstwhile enemy's presence, and then sighed. Film Brain, sensing that it was his duty to provide moral support, slowly approached Luke and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I can't believe he's gone," Luke said.

"You mustn't blame yourself," Film Brain replied. "There was nothing you could've done."

"Nothing?" Luke asked.

"No. Well, maybe…" Film Brain thought for a moment. "If you'd jumped in front of him like one second earlier you could've, I don't know, pushed him out of the beam's way or something. Then again, maybe it would've only served to make things worse by fusing the two of you together into some amorphous blob thing, and then we would've had to put you both out of your conjoined misery…"

"Okay…"

"…and I'm not going to lie, but to be honest we all would be just a little bit better off if you'd been taken instead of Cinema Snob," Film Brain continued. "I mean, you're an okay midshipman and all, but come on. The Snob was co-captain, in charge of the weapons and everything, and you're just his untalented lackey…"

"Film Brain…"

"…but that's neither here nor there. I guess it's better that you're still here safe and sound, while The Snob's stuck on an enemy warship, probably being horribly tortured to either death or insanity. I heard from Joe that aliens use these giant rectal probes to interrogate humans, so you can probably take comfort in the fact that it's not your anus that's being violently—"

_ "Oh my God you're horrible at this!"_ Luke cried, shaking Film Brain's not that comforting hand off his shoulder. "Why would you even say something like that? What's the matter with you?!"

"Sorry," Film Brain said sheepishly. "British grief counseling; defuse the situation at hand with horrible alternate scenarios. It… kind of works?" He shrugged. "And who knows? Maybe they're treating The Snob's okay, and not emasculating him with a giant—"

"Not. Helping."

"Sorry," Film Brain said again.

Luke sighed. "I guess you're… sort of right," he admitted, turning to look back out the window at the passing stars. "We really don't know what they're doing to him, and that's what's killing me. They could be doing something like shoving ice picks under his nails, putting hot sauce in his eyes or forcing him to watch paint dry for hours on end, and we can't do anything about it. Who knows what kind of insane tortures they're subjecting him to right now?"

"Wow, those are a lot less horrible than what I had in mind," Film Brain said. "My guess is that they'd use something like a branding iron."

"Again, what's wrong with you?" Luke asked.

* * *

The Cinema Snob was awake. His eyes were closed, but he was awake. He felt inert and squishy at the same time, like all of his bones had melted. His mind wasn't much better. He still remembered being shoved into a dank grey prison cell on Terl's ship. Shortly after that a strange green gas had poured out of the walls, which he'd tried to avoid by pulling his shirt up over his nose. That apparently hadn't worked, and so now he was here, which was… someplace he didn't know where. He was lying on top of something plushy—it felt like a king-size bed. There was an even plushier shape lying next to him, one that was touching his shoulder gently. What in the hell could it—?

This thought was interrupted by a sweet, chocolaty thing being pushed into his mouth. What the hell? What kind of bizarre alien torture device was this? It had to be filled with poison or laxative or something. Don't bite down, he thought, don't give them the satisfaction of watching you… man, he was really hungry. When had he eaten last? Six hours ago? Seven? Oh hell, one bite couldn't hurt. Carefully, he bit into the morsel, his tongue probing it for the presence of docusate. It was a chocolate-coated strawberry. The juices from the fruit trickled down his chin as he chewed and swallowed. It was good. Damn good.

His eyes fluttered open. He _was _in a bed, a pillow covered king-sized bed in a room that looked like a hotel suite at the Bellagio. The shape next to him was a beautiful woman bearing an uncanny resemblance to his wife, whom he was sure he'd left back on Earth. She was carrying a platter stocked with more strawberries, along with every other type of fresh fruit imaginable, all of them coated in chocolate or other decadent substances. The Snob, unbelieving of his good luck, sat up and carefully drew the platter closer to him.

"Jesus…" he said groggily, staring at the brunette bombshell in front of him. "Did I miss somethin'? I think I might be in the wrong movie..."

"Ah, good. You're awake," came a suave voice from somewhere else in the room. "I trust you're enjoying yourself, Mr. Snob? How preposterous. Of course you are. Malibu is absolutely splendid this time of year…"

The Snob turned in the direction the voice had come from. It had come from a rather tall man dressed in a black suit standing by the door. Everything about him was sharp; he had a sharp haircut, sharp blue eyes, a sharp business suit and sharp, dazzlingly white teeth that flashed in his mouth like tiny razors. Before The Snob could reply, his new benefactor clapped his hands and said, "Intern, leave us." The intern complied, wrenching the platter away from The Snob and gliding toward the door, pausing to pop a slice of pineapple in her boss's mouth as she did so. The Snob, still relishing the aftertaste of the strawberry, sat up slowly.

"Who are you?" he asked the mystery man.

"M nm s… eccus m…" The man paused briefly to enjoy his pineapple. "Ah, Malaysian. Delicious. My name is Christopher Clod, head of the Motion Picture Association of American Artists. We represent nine-tenths of the entire film industry."

"Wait, Chris Clod?" The Snob said. "Chris Clod the senator who quit his job and said he'd never become a lobbyist? That Chris Clod?"

"Yes."

"You became a lobbyist."

Clod laughed, showing his entire mouthful of shiny razor teeth at once. "Please, Bradakin, I prefer the term 'film supporter and enthusiast'."

The Snob froze. "How do you know my real name?"

"Oh, it's not your real name," Clod replied casually. "It became your real name in 1999, when you were so excited for the release of _The Phantom Menace _that you had it legally changed to Bradakin."

"And how in the hell do you know that?" The Snob asked.

"I know many things about you, Bradakin. For example…" Clod produced a jet black notebook and recited breathlessly from its pages. "Your birth name is Bradley Jones. You were born December 17, 1981 in Springfield, Illinois. You have a wife whose name is Jillian Zirawski. You work from home doing reviews of B and Z grade movies. Your height is five feet, seven inches. Your favorite movie is _Caligula_ and your favorite TV show is _Mystery Science Theater 3000_." He put the notebook down and smiled serenely.

"I'm not going to lie, that's kind of creepy," The Snob said.

"I assure you, it's entirely benign," Clod replied. "I always strive to do the greatest amount of background research possible on potential new members."

"New members?" The Snob's unease began to subside slightly.

"Oh yes. I've been following your career with great interest," Clod said. "You are a valued asset to us, Bradakin, to the entire film community."

"Really?"

"Absolutely, and I must say your talents are sadly wasted in that cesspool you call the internet, on that website you ally with. The critics of That Guy with the Glasses don't understand you, Bradakin. They don't understand your full potential. They're afraid of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Come. Let's take a little walk…"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Luke's inner monologue was another sticking point in Part 5. I tried to go for the right mixture of angst and fear without coming off as too whiny. Hope I struck the right balance for most of you.

And now we have Christopher Clod in the mix. I'm not going to lie, I _love_ this guy as a villain. He's got the three C's: charisma, creepiness, and crazy, and the charisma part is getting an upgrade next chapter. Like Prick, his arguments are going to have a little more weight behind them for the sake of the story, not because I personally agree with his politics. I understand the movie slims it down because of time constraints, but "we can stand to make more money" does not an exciting conversion to the dark side make. There's got to be at least some reason behind wanting to go with Clod; otherwise he's just a creeper with lots of money whom the audience knows is evil but Brad sides with anyway for the sake of the story. I can abide by warped logic if it makes sense. Dumb characters? Never, not even plot hole-induced ones.

-Xoanon


	32. Part 5, Chapter 31

**Chapter 31: Filmmaking and Breaking**

_Make money. Make more money. Make other people produce so as to make more money._

—L. Ron Hubbard

* * *

The place was much larger than The Snob had expected. He and Clod walked leisurely down one of its grand hallways filled with frosted glass mirrors and ornate decorated Ming vases perched on little pedestals. It was like the Palace of Versailles, only more tasteful. As Clod expounded on the inner workings of his little "film enthusiasts" club, The Snob ogled every inch of the hallway, looking for flaws he could point out to his host. There weren't any. It was all perfect. Every decoration, from the silver floor moldings to the Boston ferns placed in every corner, was in perfect ratio with everything else. The place was a practical Nirvana of home design.

"You see, Bradakin, we here at the MPAAA are the end product of cinematic entrepreneurship," Clod said, dragging The Snob away from his ogling of a shapely glass figurine. "We provide the world with thousands of hours of entertainment with our movies, sequels, prequels, sequels, remakes and sequels, entertainment of a caliber only a tightly regulated and well-financed studio system can provide. We are the old order, retrofitted and redesigned for the new millennium."

At the words "studio system", The Snob's skepticism afterburner ignited. "Oh really?" he replied. "And does that system give you the power to shut down anyone who disagrees with the way you run things? Because let me tell you, me and my friends have been on the ass end of that deal several times. Explain to me why you've nailed reviewers for using copyrighted material under Fair Use."

"Ah yes…" Clod replied slowly. "I understand that there have been several disagreements between our enthusiasts and the general population, but you've got to understand that filmmaking is a precarious art, one that only a select few are able to practice. And if we were to let every Tom, Dick and Harry in the world use clips of difficult and expensive-to-produce material with no reimbursement, well, there wouldn't be much of an incentive to create anything, now would there?"

"Okay…"

"And besides, I love diversity," Clod continued. "Truly, I love it more than anyone. But we have our own interests to think of, our dignity, and our legacy as the vanguard of cinema. We have standards, Bradakin, and standards are what separate true art from pure rubbish."

"So that explains SUCKA? You're trying to protect your 'interests'?" The Snob said.

"Precisely. The Stop the Unstoppable Copyright Killers Act will prevent any… outsiders… from dragging Hollywood's name through the mud. That is but one method of protection. We have several more waiting in the wings, which I'm sure you and yours are fully aware of. But I assure you our motives are entirely selfless; we wish to preserve cinema, not control it. And the best way to do that is to keep our movies eminent, relevant, and most importantly, profitable. That is our key priority. That is why we exist."

"Funny," The Snob said. "Last time I checked, Hollywood's movies were still making record amounts of money even in spite of critical derision."

"Upkeep, Bradakin. All devoted to upkeep," Clod deflected. "We can always stand to keep our profit margins as thick as possible—a rainy-day fund for our many shareholders. Think of it like a house; the more insulation it has, the warmer it is inside. In many ways the MPAAA is like a house as well. The more insulation it has, the more moneyed its members are."

"That analogy doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't have to. You see my point."

"And that would be?"

Clod suddenly turned to face The Snob, the thin smile on his face now much thinner. "The point, Bradakin, is that we cannot continue to survive and prosper when everyone else is cutting into our insulation," he said. "Art is a business. Every single piece of entertainment you have ever enjoyed was green-lit, financed, overseen and distributed by businessmen. Every director, producer, writer, actor, cameraman, editor, gaffer, best boy, key grip and caterer of every movie ever made was hired, okayed and paid for by us. We are not just a part of moviemaking. We are moviemaking. And we will not go away merely because a bunch of talentless clowns on the internet think we're being unfair."

"Bullshit," The Snob replied. "If Hollywood's a business, then you've been taking bailouts from the government for the past sixty years. Every overproduced big-budget flop that fails to recoup its costs gets bolstered by your shady accountants. Every one that makes it is usually mediocre or worse. You're not businessmen, you're glorified tax cheats."

"I assure you, truth is stranger than fiction," Clod said emphatically. "Every dollar that circulates through the Hollywood system is well spent. But it's not enough. Not nearly enough. Everyone's feeling the pinch, Bradakin, even me. I've had to sell off one of my summer homes to cope with this economic downturn we've been having. Why, we can barely even afford to pay our own writers! That's how serious this crisis is."

"You barely paid them anything to begin with," The Snob objected. "That's why the Writers Guild of America went on strike in '07. You weren't paying them any residuals from digital sales."

"Indeed," Clod said, his sharp look even sharper now. "Do you want to know why we didn't pay them, Bradakin? Why we couldn't?"

"Don't you dare say i—"

"Pirates."

"You know," The Snob grumbled, "I gotta say, you're not endearing yourself to me further."

"Alright, piracy is only one half of our current predicament," Clod admitted. "But it still exacerbates the general problem. In fact, it's the very reason I've called you here."

"Mr. Clod, I think we should say goodbye now…"

"Just hear me out. If you don't like what I have to say, you may leave whenever you wish. I am a fair man if anything else."

The Snob sighed. "Okay. I'm listening."

"The WGA strike was symptomatic of a larger problem in the industry, Bradakin," Clod began. "The world is changing, and we've done our best to change along with it, but sometimes, regrettably, things get lost or mistranslated in the shuffle. We've had this battle before; the '85 strike had us arguing over sales of VHS tapes. We worked out a formula giving .3% of the first reportable gross of tapes to each writer, and .36% after that for residuals. That seemed fair at the time. Then DVDs came onto the market, and the same argument resurfaced. We're doing it again now with Blu-Rays. You see the problem, don't you?"

"Not really."

"It's technology. Movies hold a special place in the people's heart, Bradakin. They've been the quintessential form of entertainment the world over for over eighty years. The problem is that the current technology takes profits out of the hands of the creators and the businessmen who showcase them. Once upon a time, the only way to view a movie was to go to a theatre, pay for a ticket, sit down and watch. Now, movies can be ripped onto laptops from VHS tapes, DVDs or DVRs, and posted on YouTube for free viewings. Who needs to go to a theatre anymore? Who needs to pay? Just press a button and receive entertainment, on demand and at absolutely no personal cost to you. These methods are a detriment to the art of cinema, to the creator of a work and his noble servants, namely us."

"So?" The Snob shot back. "What happened to the 'old order retrofitted for the new millennium'? Hollywood's been through TV, video games and the internet, and it's still around. If you've made it this long then you can keep going. Hell, you've already got distribution paths set up in places like iTunes and Netflix. All that money goes back into the studio system when people click the 'buy' or 'rent' button. And besides, all the innovation in the world won't help if your movies suck colossal amounts of ass. Why not focus on getting some real talent back into your studios so people will want to pay nine dollars to see your films rather than just pirate the ones they think are good?"

Clod put his hands on The Snob's shoulders, his razor-sharp eyes flashing. "Do you know how much money it takes to make a film, Bradakin?"

"Sure. Do you?"

"In Hollywood, it takes an astronomical amount. Like a snowflake, every film has a different budget, but the money poured into them is always spent on the same items: rights to a certain story, around $50,000; screenplays themselves, $145,000 to two million a script. Hiring directors, producers, casting, sound and visual effects, rights to music, rights to images, paying thousands of crewmembers for their hard work, and finally, catering. That's not even counting the money spent on advertising and merchandise. It's not all solid gold fountains and mind-blowing coke parties, Bradakin. Every film is a gamble, and it's a knife in the gut for some poor schmoe every time their movie fails to recoup its production costs. That's why we have magic accountants. They're the cleanup crew for the ones that crash and burn."

The Snob shuddered. Clod may have been dramatizing a little, but he knew what it was like for a film to be a failure. He knew what it was like to make a film, to treat it as if it were your own child, to make it the best you possibly could with everything you had, with your blood, sweat and tears poured into every bit of footage, only to have it flop. He'd felt it one too many times, from projects and features he'd really wanted to complete, from half-baked concepts and horrible execution, from hours of footage wrenched painfully out of actors not giving it their all under special effects that were third-rate and a tepid script. It was the worst possible feeling any cinephile could feel, a feeling of complete and abject despair, like being kicked in the nuts with a boot made out of solid iron. It was the feeling of defeat.

"Alright, I can respect that," he said finally. "But what does that have to do with the price of celluloid in Japan? What does that have to do with me?"

"It has nothing to do with you," Clod replied, letting go of The Snob. He walked over to a door in the wall The Snob hadn't noticed before. "In professional filmmaking, the line between failure and success is often razor thin, and every dollar counts. When you pirate our films, or misappropriate their footage, it's not us you're hurting. It's them."

He opened the door. Beyond it was a small coat closet, painted entirely black, with no light to illuminate it innards. Inside there was a young blonde woman in glasses, dressed in a tasteful puce pantsuit, a collar locked around her neck trailing a ball-and-chain. She was hunched over a very old typewriter, striking at the keys with faultless accuracy. A large stack of finished pages sat at her left side. An equal number of blank pages sat at her right. She was a scriptwriter.

"Look at her, Young Bradakin," Clod said sadly. "Can you deny this poor writer her dues in the name of Fair Use? Such tactics are merely an excuse used by the wanton destroyers of all we have strived to build, and this is their true victim. Without the income from our films, there is nothing for them, no reward for their trials and suffering."

"Please sir," the woman coughed. Her voice was hoarse, but still sweet. "May I have a paycheck?"

"I'm dreadfully sorry, my dear," Clod said. "Pirates."

He shut the door on her slowly. There was silence for a moment, then the typewriter clacking resumed. The Snob felt a pang of long-dormant empathy run through him. It hurt. It hurt a lot. Clod smiled in spite of this.

"That… really sucks and all," The Snob said. "So what is it you want me to do?"

"Like I said, Bradakin, your talents are wasted on That Guy with the Glasses," Clod replied. "You spend your waking hours reviewing Z-grade porno flicks and slasher movies. You sell yourself short, playing it safe by keeping your energy locked up in the dank dungeons of the internet. But you could do so much more. With our help, you could cast off your self-imposed shackles, and achieve your dream of being a genuine filmmaker."

"What do you know about my dreams?"

"Everything." Clod produced a small remote from his pocket. "I know everything."

* * *

"Greetings, Bradakin. I'm Julie Taylor, and I want to be your gaffer."

"Hi, Bradakin. Jim Yao. If you need explosions, I'm your pyrotechnician."

"Richard Price, Bradakin. Caterer. Don't forget the name, or the food."

The Snob couldn't believe his eyes. From out of a nearby door there streamed a veritable parade of people of all sizes, sexes, colors and creeds, all of them professing to have skills in video editing, sound effects, camerawork, acting and every other job a movie needed done, all of them wanting to work for him. They crowded around him like a well-behaved mob, shaking his hands, clapping him on the back, smiling, congratulating him for things he hadn't done yet. It was amazing. He was on Cloud Nine—no, better than that. He was on Cloud Eleven, Cloud Eleven point Five tops.

"Think of it, Bradakin," Clod said. "Everything you need to make a movie at your disposal: real lights, real high-end cameras, real actors, real good food, key grips, best boys, marketing directors, producers. An entire production team at your beck and call, the one with which you'll make the greatest of motion pictures, movies that will make Hollywood number one for all time to come. It's all yours. All you have to do is give the order, and they'll follow you into Hell."

He plucked The Snob out of the crowd. "The noose is tightening around the critics, Bradakin. Soon they will be swept to the wayside and relegated to the dustbin of history. If not us, then others will object to their products being misused or torn down. Here, with us, you'll be provided with a fully furnished apartment, and enough money to finish your magnum opus, or opuses. Don't believe me? Here, have a little starting money."

He produced a very crisp check. The Snob took it immediately. His eyes bugged out.

"Is… that as many zeroes as I think it is?" he slurred, drooling slightly.

"Add some more. I insist," Clod said, producing a pen. "Just be sure not to spend it all in one place. You'll have a lot of people under your thumb to think about, you know."

The Snob took a deep breath. "Clod, I gotta say… this is pretty fucking sweet."

"Oh yes, Bradakin, it is."

"All this seems just too good to be true," he continued. "You're telling me that if I join you and the studio system, I can have a top-notch production team, a fuck-ton of money, an apartment, and enough time to write a bunch of amazing scripts?"

"Precisely."

"I can make the movies I want, with the material I write and the people I want to collaborate with?"

"So long as people pay money to see them."

"And cast the actors I choose?"

"If you can wrangle them up, you can make them play naked _Twister _for all I care."

The Snob's head was doing the breast stroke across the Pacific Ocean. He looked at his entourage. They were smiling, nodding, giving him the thumbs-up. A few of the chicks looked like they wanted him to break his marital vows right then and there. He was on the verge of joining them, becoming their leader. To be a Hollywood director, to be mentioned in the same breath as Welles, Hitchcock, and Kubrick, had always been greatest dream. And he was on the verge of accomplishing it at last.

And yet…

The smile faded from his face. That's what this felt like. A dream.

He turned back to Clod, "And if I refuse?" The crowd of people behind him went dead silent. Clod stood there for a moment, then shrugged nonchalantly.

"As I told you, Bradakin, you may leave anytime you wish," he said.

"Really?"

"All I ask is that you think about it. I'll give you, say, forty-eight hours to decide. If by that time you still want to leave, I'll tell the concierge to send you back to Illinois in comfort on one of our Learjets."

"Oh, cool." The Snob said. He was somewhat relieved Clod hadn't dismissed him outright. Time to think would be good.

Clod produced his remote again and pressed one of its buttons. The team of people behind The Snob disappeared. The room disappeared. The Zuma beachfront and the calm blue waters of Santa Monica Bay disappeared. Everything disappeared, leaving The Snob and Clod standing alone in a dingy, green-patterned room the size of an aircraft hangar. It was now even deader silent. The Snob could hear his own breathing. His head was reeling. The entire place had been a holographic projection. Everything he'd seen had been a projection—the ornate décor, the writer, the gaffer, techie and caterer—everything. Even the check in his hand was gone, a gossamer key to a kingdom made out of nothing but hardened light.

He turned to look at Clod. Clod no longer looked calm and inviting. Instead he looked more like Everest in a snowstorm, cold and towering. He approached The Snob, stopping just short of the man's face, and spoke one last time.

"Just remember, Jones," he said. "When you leave, so does the dream."

He turned and walked away, leaving The Cinema Snob all alone.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Okay, moment of truth time._ I am not arguing for Clod's "side" here._ All of this was done for the sake of the story and to give Bradakin more of a reason to cross over to the moneyed peoples' camp. The argument postulated probably isn't going to convince anybody else, but context-wise I feel it's pretty solid. I felt almost as if there were more scenes between Clod showing the writer in her shackles and offering The Snob beaucoup bucks, so that's what I tried to extrapolate. For what it's worth, there is no contest as to who I support; Clod is still the villain and the story is still firmly on the side of the critics. You'll be seeing another of these "Clod" scenes later, and I plan to go all out for OanCitizens little spiel in Part Seven, so you'll get a rebuttal eventually...

Hope you enjoy. R/R.

-Xoanon


	33. Part 5, Chapter 32

**Chapter 32: Ruminations of Petty Officers**

_Guess, if you can, and choose, if you dare._

—Pierre Corneille, Héraclius, Act IV, Scene iiii

* * *

_It was close. Tantalizingly close. He wanted to reach out and touch it, feel it. He couldn't. His arms were missing. He was missing. It held him as a captive audience in its splendor, dancing, twirling, cavorting in front of him, entrancing him, mocking him. It was blue, and purple, and white all at once. It had wispy spidery arms that reached out across nothingness. It was beautiful. It was the Hole. _

_It kept him in its thrall for he didn't know how long. All time seemed to bow before it, all the seconds and minutes and hours of perception rendered meaningless before its phantasmagoric splendor. In his incorporeal ears he heard whispers, half-heard murmurs and mutters of things man was not meant to know or comprehend. It told him secrets, forbidden knowledge, desires he didn't know he had. It spoke to him of purpose, of duty, of the meaning of life itself. It told him what he must do._

_Return._

The Nostalgia Critic jumped. He was standing on the upper deck in the den, in front of the viewports. They looked out onto a field of dim stars. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head, then looked again. Nothing. It had been another hallucination.

They had left Jupiter and Europa far behind, following the ion trail left by Terl's war-abode past Jupiter's orbit and into the outer Solar System. They were closing in on Saturn, still two days away at full impulse. Terl's engines vastly outmatched the crippled systems of the _Exit Strategy_, and already they were lagging, a minnow trying to match the pace of a shark. The water and atmospheric recyclers were malfunctioning almost hourly. They were running low on food, water and toiletries. There was talk of mutiny amongst the crew.

Luckily, it wouldn't be against him. He was no longer captain; he was no longer anything. Phelous was in charge of the ship now, having promoted himself to "Ultra Mega Super-Captain", and he was content enough to lounge on top of the captain's chair, giving orders to repair the damage done in the battle, to get the engines back up to full capacity, and to get him sodas from the fridge. The Critic paid him no mind. His thoughts were on other matters, namely, his cowardice, his incompetence, and his failure. Those were the things he always focused on, no matter what.

_It should've been me, _he thought. _I should've let them just trade me for Spoony and the away team. Terl wanted me all along anyway. He could've taken me as his prisoner, and then everyone else would've gotten out of this mess and left me to rot in some space dungeon. But I didn't listen to them. I thought I had it under control. I went on some bullshit wild goose chase all over Europa, and all I have to show for it is a body count and a kidnapped co-captain. That figures. Even when I try to do the right thing, it results in somebody getting fucked. Why didn't I just leave for the Hole when I had the chance? _

"Critic?"

The Critic turned around. Film Brain was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He looked calm. It was a surprisingly good look for him. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Just fine, Film Brain," The Critic replied. "Care to join me?"

"Uh… sure." Film Brain padded slowly across the living room and stopped at The Critic's side. The two stood there for a few moments, staring out into the endless space in front of them, the only thing to be heard the whining drone of the half-dead engines. It was awkward, but dramatically so. Finally, The Critic spoke:

"How's Luke?" he said.

"Upset. Like the rest of us," Film Brain replied.

"Don't worry. It'll pass."

Film Brain turned to look at The Critic. "I'm not so sure about that," he said. "I mean, what's going to happen to us? We're out in the middle of space, for Pete's sake. The ship's badly damaged, we're running out of supplies, and The Snob's been taken hostage by space tossers who are doing God-knows-what to him. And then there's this whole business with Spoony, the secret behind the Hole, the battle against SUCKA, global warming, deforestation, declining reserves of fossil fuels, adapting to life in a secular, postmodern society, hoodies—"

"Film Brain," The Critic interrupted, putting up a hand. "Just… worry about one thing at a time, okay?"

"Oh. Sorry," Film Brain said. "But you've got to admit, it's pretty frightening, isn't it? Everybody's scared. _I'm_ scared. It's like we're lost in the woods without a map. Nobody knows what we should do."

"Yeah," The Critic agreed. "I know the feeling."

"So what's the plan?"

"What?"

"Your plan. You're still our leader, aren't you?"

"What are you talking about?" The Critic asked. "I thought Phelous mutinied."

"Yeah… It was kind of a one-man mutiny. We're getting pretty sick of him."

The Critic sulked. "He's doing a better job than I ever could. Just keep following his orders, kid. He's the one who's going to get you out of the woods, not me. He's from Canada. They're all about woods up there."

"Easy for you to say; you're not the one who has to keep getting him sodas," Film Brain replied.

"I remember a certain Pop-Tart who didn't mind getting me sodas back in Kickassia," The Critic said, with a smirk.

"Well, that was different," Film Brain countered. "At least you didn't make me drink it when I got you the wrong kind. I hate those Mello-Yellos in the fridge, by the way. They're absolutely disgusting."

"What can I say? Ernest has never steered me wrong before."

The two chuckled. It felt good.

"So do you have a plan or not?" Film Brain asked.

"Ah, I don't know," The Critic replied. "I mean, I thought I did, once. But ever since that Hole showed up, everything's been... changing."

"Changing?" Film Brain repeated.

"I don't know how else to describe it," The Critic continued. "I know the plot hole's been messing everything up on Earth, that everybody's scared and worried about the ship and Spoony and The Snob, that SUCKA's messing with the internet and might cost us our jobs. But that's only part of it. There's something else. Everything just feels… unstable now, like we can get torn apart by anything bigger than us at moment's notice—SUCKA, the douche-nozzle filmmakers and corrupt politicians of the world, the plot holes—everything. It's like something's always coming for us, and that something's so big we can't stop it no matter where we run and how hard we try. That's what gets me, Film Brain. How are you supposed to plan for something that you can't possibly hope to overcome?"

He looked out at the field of stars shining in front of the ship. They looked like tiny holes poked in a very dark, very large blanket. He sighed.

"What if it's all been building up to this?" he asked. "All the reviews, all the crossovers, all the cameo appearances, the specials, the conventions, the mishaps, the lawsuits, the Hole, all the madness and chaos in life—what if it's all been the buildup for a final act, something huge, something spectacular? What if that thing that's coming for us can be boiled down into a single aspect? What if that aspect's something small, like one single choice? What happens if that one choice comes down to just one person?"

He shivered. It was cold. It was very cold.

"And what if that one person… is me?"

Film Brain was silent. He stood there trying to wrap his mind around what The Critic had said. He wasn't sure if all the things The Critic had said about choice and the enemies they were facing were true, but he was right about one thing: everything was changing, and they couldn't stop it no matter how much they tried. Even if they got The Snob back, even if they managed to return Spoony to normal, even if they figured out what to do with the Hole, nothing would ever be the same again. This was the totality, their last mission, in a sense, the apex of their lives together. There was nowhere left to go from here, nowhere but back to normalcy, back to their rapidly shortening lives as semi-professional critics.

Film Brain turned to The Critic, and smiled.

"Well, I can't think of a better person for it to fall to than you," he said at last.

The Critic smiled back at him. "Thanks, Mat."

"You're welcome."

They stood there for a while longer after that, watching the ship plow through the stars. Film Brain, slowly, raised his arm and placed it on The Critic's shoulder.

"Don't go _Brokeback _on me," The Critic said. Film Brain lowered his arm.

* * *

Engineering was empty. CR and Joe had both hit the sack long ago, and the fluorescent lights in the ceiling were off, shrouding the entire area in a cloak of darkness. The ailing systems of the starship hacked and thudded, the engines puttering at half impulse now. Saturn was still a day away. Lupa huddled down in one of the corners next to a pallet of mushroom caps. She was waiting for her contact. With his zealous help, she was going to get to the bottom of the strange attack that had befallen the _Exit Strategy _during the Battle of Europa. She peeked around the corner. Where was he? She'd told him to meet her here specifically at eight sharp. It was now eight-ten.

There came something from beside Lupa's ear, something sounding like "Hey, Lupa—". Reflexively, Lupa grabbed blindly for whatever it was that was perched at her left side, her hands grabbing a soft, loose-fitting piece of cloth in the process. Shifting her center of gravity, she pitched the thing over her shoulder and sent it flying into the other corner with ease. The thing cried out in surprise, then in pain, then in English:

"It's me! Todd!"

"Shhhh!" Lupa hissed, motioning for Todd to get his act together and come closer. He did so, flopping out of the pile of boxes he'd landed in and kneeling on the floor next to her.

"That's not funny, Todd!" Lupa whispered. "Why did you sneak up on me like that?"

"Sorry, I thought you'd appreciate it if I made a stealthy entrance," Todd groaned, rubbing his side and wincing "Alright, Lupa, what's so important you need to talk to me about? 'Cause let me tell you, if you want me to give you another chance—"

"It's not about that," Lupa said.

"Oh please want me to give you another chance," Todd said. "I want you to want me to give you another chance, and I will! I'll shine up the old brown shoes, put on a brand new shirt—"

"Look, I asked you to come here because I think the ship might be in danger," Lupa interrupted. She produced a tiny metal sphere. It was cracked and covered in an ashy substance. "These are Dr. Insano's electro-charges. I found them all over the ship at key weak points. They were inside holes drilled into the walls. They're the reason the ship almost got toasted during the battle; somebody set them all off at once and disabled our systems."

"Okay," Todd said. "You have any idea who did it?"

"According to the security logs, a command message passed through an unsecured network to the charges just after our shields went down," Lupa replied. "I couldn't decipher the signal, but I know the location it was sent from: engineering. And the only two people in engineering who weren't doing anything during the battle were The Nostalgia Chick and Linkara."

"Why would either of them do something like that?" Todd asked.

"I can't speak for Lewis, but Lindsay…" Lupa sighed. "I don't know. Maybe after getting rejected by you, she thinks she's got nothing left to live for, or something."

"Must take some kind of freaky devotion to go through with a murder-suicide this complicated," Todd mused. "See, why can't you be like that?"

Lupa swallowed a fresh font of anger. "Look, I just need you to keep an eye on them for me. Watch what they do and report back to me if they make another move."

Todd lowered his head slightly. "Why are you asking me to do this?" he said angrily. "You've already figured out I'm an emotionally destitute creep with agoraphobia. Why do you still want anything to do with me at all?"

"Because… because you're only person I know who'd believe me."

Todd thought for a moment. Lupa hoped he would say yes, and not storm off and wake everyone else up in the process.

"Okay," he said finally. "But I'm only doing this for you."

"Thank you," Lupa said. Todd got up to leave. "Just be discreet. We'll meet up here again tomorrow."

Todd laughed, loudly enough to make Lupa cringe. "Discreet? Oh please. I'm a ninja in a hoodie, baby. Just you wait and see." He stepped out the door. Lupa sighed again, also hoping she hadn't gotten Todd into too much trouble.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Another guilt chapter. The Critic's mind is getting messed with here. Three guesses as to who's doing it...

-Xoanon


	34. Part 5, Chapter 33

**Chapter 33: Reduplication**

_Three may keep a Secret, if two of them are dead._

—Benjamin Franklin

* * *

Todd pounded loudly on the door to The Critic's bedroom with both hands. "HEY! NOSTALGIA CHICK! LINKARA! ARE YOU GUYS DOING ANYTHING SUSPICIOUS OR EVIL IN THERE? I'M ONLY ASKING BECAUSE I WAS CURIOUS, AND DEFINITELY NOT BECAUSE ANYBODY TOLD ME TO CHECK UP ON YOU TO FIND OUT WHAT YOU'RE DOING! HELLO?"

There was no answer. It was the day after Lupa had called him to her little meeting in engineering. Todd had gotten up early, in an attempt to prove to Lupa that he was a trustworthy secret agent, and tracked his two charges to The Critic's bedroom on the top floor, where they'd been spending an awful lot of time together lately. That meant one of two things: either they were still doing it, or they were busy plotting another scheme. Todd assumed the former and hoped for the latter.

He knocked again. "HELLO? GUYS?" he shouted, slightly louder than before. Again there was no response. He tried the knob. The door was locked. He put an ear to the wood. Aside from the ocean, he could hear a muffled chatter. Someone was talking. It sounded like Linkara—at least he thought it did. For some reason, it sounded like Linkara had replaced his voice with AutoTune. He heard another voice occasionally, at a softer pitch and timbre, which had to be The Chick's. So they were both inside the room. He'd figured out that much. But what kinky, unspeakable things could they possibly be doing in there?

* * *

**[****This had better be the final phase of your plan, Terl,****] **he said. He and unit two were once again hidden away in The Critic's quarters, listening to the idiotic, self-congratulatory prattling on of "General" Terl. The store of satisfaction received from the string of killings he'd committed to slake his bloodlust back on Earth had finally begun to run dry, and the eternal patience it had given him throughout this endeavor was finally wearing thin. He wanted to kill. He needed to kill. All he needed was this stupid meatbag to tell him he could.

_"It is, my metallic friend," _Terl replied._ "Phase three is the undoubted master stroke of my fiendish plan, the crescendo of my glorious revenging of The Nostalgia Critic! No other ploy in history has climaxed in an ecstasy of carefully planned violence and murder such as this! It shall be an epic unto the ages unlike any that have come before, or ever will come again! On my eternal vow, I swear it will be—" _

**[****Get. To. The. Point.****] **

_"Alright, geez," _Terl said. _"Here's the plan: based on what you've told me about your little crewmates, they're all distracted with the completion of this new… what'd you call it?" _

He turned to unit two, who recited her recorded intelligence loud enough for Terl to hear: _{__The crew of the _Exit Strategy_ is currently occupied with the carbon units CR and JesuOtaku and their invention, a machine created from an unknown set of blueprints. The function of this machine has yet to be discerned by this unit.__}_

_ "Yes yes, that thing!" _Terl said. _"While those simpering man-apes are distracted with their new toy, you two will have the entire ship at your mercy! You'll be able to do whatever you please and they'll be none the wiser! It's the perfect distraction!"_

**[****How insightful. What do you propose we do?****]**

_"Simple. You two are going to kill the crew of the _Exit Strategy_…" _

* * *

Todd shoved the hairpin into the lock of the door, rotating it slightly to and fro in each direction. With any luck he would be able to get it unlocked before anybody happened by. Somehow he had known stealing one of Lupa's hairpins would come in handy. To think Paw had called his obsession with her hair-care products "creepy" and "serial killer-esque". Well he looked pretty stupid right now, didn't he? Of course, Paw didn't know he looked stupid, but Todd knew, and to him it was a sweet victory for love.

The lock clicked. The door was now open. Todd gave the pin a kiss and put it back in his pocket, standing up slowly to put a hand on the knob. He turned the knob slowly, and it yielded. He opened the door slowly. A crack of light appeared between the door and the frame. He opened it wider, and the crack grew. A very sour-faced Linkara came into view. He was holding a tiny grey box in his black gloved hand. The Chick was nowhere to be seen. Linkara paid no attention to him. He was listening intently to whatever it was the box had to say. He opened the door a little wider, putting his ear to the crack to listen in:

_"…and that will be the end of The Nostalgia Critic and his cohorts! When they're all dead, you give me the okay, and I'll have the ship towed to my master's station. There you'll receive your just reward: the secret to Malachite's Hand!" _

**[****Crude. Despicable. Underhanded. Intriguing.****] **Linkara sounded rather somber while rattling off these adjectives. Then again, he had always been kind of a puss, at least as long as Todd had known him, but somehow this didn't seem like something he would get too excited over. Did the voice coming from the box just say Linkara was going to kill The Critic and everyone else on the ship? Who the hell was that guy he was talking to? And how the hell did he manage to get the gauntlet?

**[****Risk assessment analysis indicates a high chance of success,****] **Linkara continued. **[****We will begin preparations for phase three as soon as the device is unveiled by the humans CR and JesuOtaku.****]**

_"Splendid! Within a few hours, The Critic will be no more! Soon, our evil and suspicious plans will be complete, and the galaxy will tremble in fear at the name Ferdinand von Terl! Hahahahahahaha! Ahahahahahahahaha!"_

Todd's chest seized up at the name "Terl". This was worse than Lupa had thought. This was dangerous. Linkara and The Chick had turned traitor, and they were going to kill everyone on board. Linkara began laughing along with Terl. It was way creepier than his usual laugh, the jolly, Minnesota nice one that meant he'd found another enjoyably stupid comic book to plow through. It was cold, semi-automatic, and laced with a reverb that made it sound like an angry machine gun, and it was _loud_. The Chick started laughing too. It sounded like canned joy, endlessly repeating and stuttering. They weren't human laughs. They were recordings, revamped mimicry of human laughs.

It was at that moment that Todd let the doorknob accidentally slip from his grasp. It slipped away from him slowly, so slowly that he didn't notice it until the door was halfway open, and he was standing exposed in the doorway with nary a shadow in sight to hide in. He tried to grab the door and shut it, but couldn't. It banged against the inner wall loud enough to shake the two conspirators out of their mirthless cackling. They rounded on him immediately, Linkara dismissing the communicator. Todd flattened out against the opposite wall, too frozen with fear to run, but not frozen with enough fear to wet himself.

It was only then he noticed that their eyes were completely inhuman, too red and too blue respectively, like little staring jewels set in the eye sockets of puppets. He also noticed that neither of them were blinking. At all. He gulped. Whatever craziness he had just stumbled into was as deep as the Marianas Trench, and probably twice as hard to get out of. But there was no other option left. He had to start swimming.

"Uh… hey," he said nervously. "What're you guys up to?"

**[****What did you hear?****] **Linkara asked.

"I… definitely didn't hear you guys talking about killing the crew," Todd lied.

_{__That statement is inaccurate. We were clearly discussing our plan for exterminating the carbon units aboard the _USS Exit Strategy_. Even with your insufficient human hearing, you would have been able to discern our conversation while—__} _Linkara pressed a button on his arm. The Chick suddenly went limp, her entire torso folding in half. Todd made a break for the door as the murderous Linkara-thing made for him. He almost screamed out the word "help" before the black gloves were around his neck.

* * *

Todd came to like he had several times before: in a chair, bound with thick ropes, with The Nostalgia Chick hovering next to him. Unlike the other times, however, she wasn't sitting on his lap, or wreathed around his neck like a fleshy sweater. She was standing ramrod straight in front of him, her unblinking, pale blue eyes keeping a close watch. Linkara was at the other end of the room, going over a large set of tools spread out over the bedclothes. None of those tools looked very pleasant.

Todd struggled against his ropes fruitlessly. The Chick's knots weren't unbreakable; he'd managed to escape a couple of times before. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded. "What are you guys doing? Let me go!"

_{__Remain calm, carbon unit Todd in the Shadows,__}_ The Chick replied. _{__You have been pacified for being a threat to phase three. You will be duplicated. Opposition is ineffectual.__}_

"What are you?"

**[****She is a cyborg. Half-human, half-machine,****] **Linkara answered, stepping over to Todd's chair. **[****I reassembled her when she barged in on one of my previous conversations with General Terl. Despite her organic flaws, she has proven herself as a competent derivative unit until to this point. Once my mission is complete, she will be fully converted in my home dimension. There is no logic in wasting potentially useful components.****]**

"What mission? What the hell are you talking about?"

_{__I am fully realized. My heart is steel and offal. My blood is oil and coolant. My brain runs on a Pentium Core i7 processor. I am the peak of human efficiency. I seek directives and I serve the master control unit's commands.__}_

"Ew!" Todd said. "Wait, so does that mean you don't want a relationship with me anymore?"

_{__Affirmative. This unit no longer desires platonic or sexual affection.__}_

"Oh thank God!"

_{__This unit instead wishes to alter you into a subordinate automaton devoted to serving the will of the master control unit.__}_

"…Are you sure that's not a relationship?"

**[****Be quiet.****] **Linkara put a knotted handkerchief over Todd's mouth, blocking out further comments. The Chick knelt to Todd's level and produced her left hand. With a flex of her digits, a series of drill bits sprang from her knuckles, puncturing the elastic plastic skin that had been stapled there. Todd screamed. It came out as a muffled "ummph".

_{__Please attempt no movement during the duplication process. Movement can result in damage to future system improvements. Sit back and relax,__} _The Chick said. She revved the drills up to top speed, holding Todd's shaking leg steady in one hydraulic arm. He lost consciousness when one of the drills punctured his shin bone.

* * *

On the bridge, The Critic was supervising the reconstruction effort, Phelous having been unfortunately locked in the pantry upstairs for the time being. He was helping Marzgurl reinstall her security panel's controls when the captain's chair beeped with an incoming message. Excusing himself, he stepped over to it and answered. It was Lupa. "Critic, I need to talk to you," she said.

"Well you're on the right frequency," The Critic replied.

"Not over an open channel. I need to talk to you in private."

"Right now? I'm a little busy with repairs, and we're going to see what CR and JO put together in a couple minutes…"

"It's important. Can you make it down to engineering?"

"I'll try. It's kind of a long walk from where I'm at." The Critic signed off, and walked a few feet over to a panel door in the wall of the basement. Opening the door, he stepped into the workshop at the front of the garage. Engineering was on the other side off the room. He walked up to the security terminal where Lupa was sitting. "Alright, I made it. What is it?" he asked.

"I have evidence that we have a saboteur on board," Lupa replied.

"A tiger?"

"Not a saber-tooth, a saboteur, a traitor."

The Critic stroked his beard. "Really?" he said. "That's a pretty hefty assertion. Do you have any suspects?"

"Linkara and The Nostalgia Chick. They've been spending a lot of time together lately, and I suspect they have something to do with the catastrophic system failure we had during the battle at Europa."

"Do you have any proof?" The Critic asked.

"Todd's doing recon work for me. He should have something by now."

"Lupa," The Critic said, "I know you're a little jealous of The Chick finding true love, and with a Minnesotan lothario like Linkara no less, but you can't let personal feelings…"

"It's not personal!" Lupa yelled. "They spend every waking moment together! They never eat or sleep! The other day I saw The Chick trying to style her hair with a blowtorch! Something weird is going on with those two, and it's definitely not hormones!"

"Lupa, these assertions are preposterous!" The Critic shot back. "Linkara and The Chick are as devoted to the success of this mission as you or me! I won't have unwarranted suspicion tear us apart, not after we've come this far!"

"Really?"

"Absolutely! And to prove it, I'll call them in here right now and ask them what they're up to!" The Critic dug his mobile communicator out of his pocket and spoke into it. "Linkara, Nostalgia Chick, Todd, come to engineering please."

A few moments later, Linkara, The Chick, and Todd entered the engineering quadrant. Linkara and The Chick looked as they always did. Todd was a hulking monstrosity standing roughly seven feet tall and plated in a set of chrome armor. His grey hoodie and black bandana had been replaced with a clunky yet somehow sleek-looking silver helmet, complete with a tinted black visor. Lupa stared aghast at her mutilated acquaintance as The Critic stepped up to Linkara and The Chick.

"Alright," he said. "I've been informed by one of your fellow crewmembers that you two are involved in a conspiracy to blow up the ship and kill us all. Is that true?"

**[****No.****]**

_{__Negative.__} _

"Okay. Todd, have you found any evidence that they're lying?"

_[__NONE WHATSOEVER.__] _

"Good. Back to your posts." The trio stepped back out the door, Todd's footfalls echoing throughout the room. The Critic turned to Lupa, a look of disappointment on his face. "Lupa, I know you're trying to help keep the ship safe," he said. "That's why you're Chief Security Officer. But next time try to get a little more concrete evidence, and don't let personal feelings get in the way. Okay?"

Lupa was speechless.

"Good. I'll see you at the demonstration." The Critic turned and walked out of the room, leaving Lupa to stand there in a state of utter shock.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Another solid chapter. RoboTodd was a pleasant surprise the first time I watched. Hope his conversion had the same impact here.

-Xoanon


	35. Part 5, Chapter 34

**Chapter 34: The Morpheus Retrieval**

_The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind._

—Sigmund Freud

* * *

The completed device stood on a dresser drawer in medbay. It was comprised of a lozenge-shaped computer console connected to a plastic cylinder stacked on top of it, the strange helix chain from the blueprints emblazoned on the cylinder in a repeating pattern. Altogether, the whole thing strangely resembled a zoetrope. Spoony had been placed beside the machine on a cot, a series of wires connecting a helmet he wore to the device's console. He was unconscious, but his heart rate and breathing were stable. CR stood patiently (JO impatiently) next to him, waiting, along with other members of the crew, for The Critic to show up so they could begin the demonstration.

CR was nervous. Even with Jesu's sudden proficiency in engineering, programming and computer science, he still wasn't sure that they'd managed to assemble the weird device correctly, and aside from a few broad assumptions he had absolutely no idea what it was going to do when they started it up. He wished he could have shared these and his numerous other anxieties with JO before the demonstration, but given her sudden personality shift she probably wouldn't have given them much weight anyway, so he said nothing.

The Critic entered the room with little fanfare, pushing his way to the front of the crowd as politely as possible. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "Problems with security. So what is this thing?"

"As best as we can figure out," CR replied, "it's a dream amplifier."

"And what does it do?"

"It… amplifies dreams."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

_"Yay, you've been promoted!"_ Jesu congratulated, hugging CR way too enthusiastically. CR nervously peeled her off so he could continue the demonstration.

"So what do we call this thing?" Joe asked.

"Well, its full name is the Dream Interpretation and Amplification Device," CR said. "But we've decided to give it a proper name: Morpheus."

"You named it after the black guy from _The Matrix_?" The Critic said.

CR sighed. "Morpheus was the Greek god of dreams, Critic. He was the leader of the _Oneiroi_, who were the attendants of Hypnos, god of sleep. His job was to bring dreams to all the mortals and deities that were under Hypnos's sway."

"So he's like a Greek Santa Claus, but with dreams?" Mickey said.

"Sure. We can use the machine to enter the subconscious of anyone aboard the ship using the built-in mental projection aid." CR tapped the other helmet sitting next to the console. "While you're in there, you can search for anything that's present in the mind of the other person hooked up to it. Naturally, we were planning to use it on Spoony, since he's been in contact with the Hole. If it works, he should tell us everything we need to know."

"Sounds pretty cool," The Critic said. "Where'd you come up with this thing?"

_"We got the idea from the crazy voices in our heads!"_ Jesu blurted out.

"What JO means is that we were both struck with sudden inspiration," CR clarified hastily.

"I… sort of believe that," The Critic replied. He didn't look particularly convinced.

_"My head-voices also told me to make… these!" _Jesu lifted up a pair of big honking shoes. _"These are power-enhancing rocket boots! They're like those gloves I made, only for your feetsies! They increase your power at least a thousand fold! I shall demonstrate on—" _

"I WANT TO LIVE!"

_"Paw-Paw!"_ Paw made a break for the door just as one of Jesu's boot connected with his chin. He was sent rocketing upward into the ceiling, where he crashed through the already damaged paneling and into the crawlspace between the first and second floor. The Critic carefully took the boots from the giggling Jesu and gave them to Lupa for safekeeping. "CR, we commend you and JO's effort in building this… weird… thing," he began, "but the thought occurs to me that this particular method of interpreting dreams may not be entirely safe. Would you mind if I got a second opinion?"

"Not at all. Ask away."

"Good." The Critic turned to Sad Panda, who was being sad and not particularly panda-ish next to him. "Doc Panda, what do you think?"

"_Juno_ was overrated."

"I meant about Spoony."

"He would agree with me."

"No, I meant about using the Orpheus thing to treat him."

"We wouldn't need to treat him if he'd stop watching _Juno_—"

"WOULD YOU FORGET ABOUT JUNO!?"

"I'm trying, but it's hard. Best Screenwriter? Seriously?"

"Is this thing safe or not?"

"Well…" Sad Panda thought for a long time, taking a small bottle of pills out of his coat pocket while he did so. "If there's anything _House _taught me, it's that there's nothing safer than risking the life of a patient with an experimental and highly dangerous procedure that would surely kill him were I to be wrong. I say full speed ahead." He offered The Critic the bottle. "Painkillers?"

"Don't mind if I do." The Critic took the bottle and downed a mess of pills in one swallow. "Alright, so who wants to volunteer?"

No one did.

"Alright, fine. We'll use the old standby…"

* * *

"Why in Lord Bravery's name do_ I _have to do this?" Film Brain asked. He was sitting in a chair next to Morpheus, the mental projection helmet strapped tight to his head.

"We did nose goes. You went last," The Critic replied, trying to place the sedation mask over his face. "Now stop fidgeting!"

"But why am I the perfect test subject?" Film Brain said, as CR slapped his fumbling hands away from the straps on the mask. "Why can't JewWario do it, or Eight Bit Mickey?"

"They both have too much residual brain activity," CR replied. "What we need for this test is someone who won't trigger an overreaction from Morpheus's systems, a blank slate. An innocent of sorts, someone whose brainwaves are so shallow—"

"You're a colossal idiot," Sad Panda finished, tying Film Brain's arms to the chair handles. "And if you die, most of us won't miss you." He joined CR at the console. "Now, before we begin the test, let us go over your medical history," he said. "Have you ever been hospitalized for sticking Legos up your nose?"

"Umm… no," Film Brain replied.

"Does your family have a history of mental blackouts, schizophrenia, annoying tics of the verbal and emotional varieties, slurred speech, or explosive gas?"

"No."

"Are you allergic to shellfish?"

"No."

"Penicillin?"

"No."

"Peanuts?"

"No."

"Twelve thousands volts of electricity surging through your motor cortex?"

"Very!"

"That's great. _Allons-y!_"CR pushed a lever on the Morpheus console, and immediately Film Brain began to seize and convulse in the chair. The rebreather attached to the mask kicked in, sending a rush of anesthetic gas coursing into Film Brain's waiting nostrils. He slumped down in the chair, eyelids drooping, breathing slowing to a crawl. CR watched his heart rate and brain activity dance on a nearby monitor. Finally, the young Briton was still. Film Brain had entered the realm of sleep as Hypnos's honored guest.

"He's away," CR said. "When he enters REM sleep we'll activate Morpheus. From there, we'll have him search Spoony's subconscious for information on the Hole."

"Wow. That easy?" Sad Panda waved a hand in front of Film Brain's slumbering face. "How does this person switching thing work, anyway?"

"We're using Film Brain as our eyes and ears, in a sense," CR explained. "With his vantage point, we can sift through mounds of information we couldn't get at normally. It's like having an inside man in a con. He can get to things involving the mark no one else in the job can reach. Everything he finds inside Spoony's head will show up on the projector." CR pointed to the white screen above the console. "That way, we'll be able to see everything he sees."

"What're we going to do with this thing when we're done with Spoony?" The Critic asked.

"Patent it, obviously," CR replied. "The practical applications are endless; anyone with a disabled body and active mind could benefit from it. It could be a boon to treating coma patients, people with mental disorders, PTSD sufferers. If we ever get back to Earth, this thing could make us a small fortune."

"Um… hello?" Paw called from the ceiling. "I'm still stuck up here. It's dark, and there's a lot of gooey stuff leaking in from the walls. Hello? Anybody?"

* * *

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

_(Film Brain? Can you hear me?)_

"CR? Yes, I can here you! Where are you?"

_(I'm directing your progress from the console.)_

"I can't see anything. Where am I?"

_(You're inside the Antechamber. It's the bridge between you and Spoony's subconscious mind. From there you can visit any mental file Spoony's brain has stored away.)_

"I can't see anything."

_(Your body hasn't entered REM sleep yet. Give it time.) _

"How much time?"

_(Almost…) _

"CR?"

_(Okay, get ready. Morpheus is loading the Antechamber.)_

"Okay."

_(Three… two… one…)_

Film Brain was suddenly standing alone in the middle of a gigantic white void. He stumbled, the sounds of his feet echoing off unseen walls. A bright light coming from nowhere hurt his eyes. His limbs felt heavy, underused. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light. Bizarrely, he saw nothing there, but he knew he had moved his arm. He looked down. His torso and legs weren't there either, even though he felt them. He was completely invisible.

"Uh, CR?" he said, looking up into the void. "I'm kind of… not here."

_(Like I said, Film Brain, you're a blank slate,) _CR replied. Film Brain heard the voice in his ears. He couldn't tell which direction it was coming from. _(Morpheus doesn't have any preset dream avatar for you. It needs you to supply your own information so it can build one.)_

"What information?"

_(Anything. Just say a couple specifics and Morpheus will supply the rendering.) _

"Okay…" Film Brain thought for a few moments. "I guess I'll be… human?"

_(A little more specific than that.)_

"I'll be human… white guy, wearing a… black leather coat, black shirt and pants, some sneakers, and definitely sunglasses…"

_(Wow, that's so original.)_ Sad Panda's sardonic voice was now ringing in Film Brain's ears. _(You could at least mix it up a little by giving yourself a freaking tan.) _

"Hey, shut up!"

_(Focus, Mat, you're almost done. Any other characteristics?) _

"A little Union Jack flag pin."

_ (Okay, rendering…)_

There was a "ping", and Film Brain's desired avatar flickered into view. His eyes were shielded from brightness of the Antechamber by the dark glasses that sprung into view over his newly created face. He looked down. He was now wearing the grungiest set of clothes he'd ever seen. They were coal black, and fit him perfectly, with no offending labels or slogans anywhere on them. A bitchin' leather coat was thrown on top of that, the flag pin pinned to its left lapel. Bright red sneakers adorned his feet. The new Film Brain avatar took his sunglasses off to inspect his ensemble more closely.

"Whoa," he said. "Okay, I'm all here. What's next?"

_(You'll head into Spoony's brain,) _CR replied. _(The Antechamber is programmed to allow access to all parts of the subconscious at once. All you need to do is ask for a destination.)_

Film Brain put his glasses back on. For a computer simulation, the Antechamber was surprisingly bright. "Sounds good to me. Any suggestions?"

_(I'd start with Spoony's perception. The Hole seems to have complete control over Spoony's senses, so something in there may give us a few clues on where to look next.)_

"Alrighty, then." Film Brain looked around the empty foyer. "Um… where's the exit?"

_(Verbal commands. Just say 'perception'.) _

"Perception." At this word, a single door came flying out of the whiteness at top speed. It was small, oaken, and had a large brass knob. It stopped directly in front of Film Brain. Film Brain stepped up to it cautiously. It was as if the wall had folded around the thing; he couldn't step behind it to see the other side.

"Is this it?" he asked.

_(Behind this door lies everything and everyone that Spoony has ever known, interpreted through his senses and mental faculty,) _CR said. _(I'll admit I'm a little nervous. Spoony's not exactly the most objective guy. We might not like what we find in here…) _

Film Brain shrugged. "Yippie-kai-yay, creepy doorway."

He reached for the knob, grasped it, and opened the door to Spoony's mind.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Another "let my mind run free" chapter. CR's technobabble was a little hard to perfect, but otherwise I had no trouble. Next week: perception.

-Xoanon


	36. Part 5, Chapter 35

**Chapter 35: Brain Probes a Brain**

_Too often we colour our perception with other people's pencils._

—Tim Winter

* * *

Back in medbay, the rest of the group, including the recently retrieved Phelous, had gathered around the projector screen to watch the inner recesses of Spoony's mind unfold. CR hooked Morpheus up to the projector and turned it on. The zoetrope thing on top of the console began to whirl, creating fantastic patterns as it spun. The big white screen flickered, then leapt, and then Film Brain's line of vision came into focus. He was just opening the door to Spoony's perception. CR rejoined the group. "Sit back and watch the show, everybody," he said. Sad Panda offered him painkillers, which he accepted.

The space beyond the door was completely black. Film Brain entered slowly, his footfalls echoing off a floor that sounded like it was made of discarded popsicle sticks held together with duct tape. Every step he took resulted in a symphony of creaks and groans. The air was murky, clouds of thick smoke hanging in it like thunderheads. There was a barely intelligible murmuring sound coming from the speakers. It was a weird place.

"What the hell's this?" The Critic asked CR. "I didn't think it was that avant-garde inside Spoony's head."

"I don't know," CR replied. He brought up the control mike he used to communicate with Film Brain. "Film Brain, can you see anything else in there?"

_(Uh… a little bit,)_ Film Brain said. He took off his sunglasses momentarily. _(It's really dark in here. I can make out some walls. There's a whole bunch of tables in front of me with some people sitting in them. There's a guy talking to them. I think it's a… matre'd?)_

Suddenly, a bright spotlight snapped on in front of Film Brain. It lit up a small stage like the kind you'd see in a dingy urban theater. It had a brick backdrop and a microphone on a pole standing off to one side. A few more lights went up around the stage, illuminating a floor space between it and Film Brain. There were tables down there, with patrons sitting in them and the matre'd walking in between giving out menus and warm welcomes.

"What the hell? Spoony's mind is a nightclub?" The Critic said.

"Let's see where it goes," CR replied. "Try and find a seat, Film Brain."

_ (Will do.)_ Film Brain said. He moved slowly down into the pulpit between the entrance and the stage. _(Should I be worried if somebody notices me?)_

"Just try not to attract attention to yourself and you'll be fine. Morpheus can yank you back into the Antechamber if things get too intense," CR replied.

_(Okay.)_ Film Brain took a seat in the middle of the house just as the matre'd walked on stage. It was only then that everyone watching noticed that he looked exactly like Spoony. He had the same hair, the same face, the same eyes, the same everything. He looked rather pleased with himself, smiling wide as he grabbed the pole mike. The murmurs from the club's patrons ceased as the matre'd Spoony began to speak:

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Idiot Night at the Spoontacular!" he said. The audience applauded raucously. "We've got a great show for you tonight, featuring your favorite dweebs, dolts, and total fucking chuckleheads both from here and beyond! All the failures and washouts of comedy gathered under one roof!"

The applause continued. CR and The Critic looked at each other and shrugged.

"Our first guest tonight is a real gut-buster, a guy with a lot more volume than brains, and not to mention some of the most obscene phrases you've ever heard in your life! So without further pleadings, please, put your hands over your pie hole and blow a big ol' raspberry for… The Nostalgia Critic!"

The audience complied, a chorus of raspberries shuffling the matre'd offstage. Onstage, there shuffled a familiar looking man in a black suit and red tie. He had an idiotic grin plastered over his face, a mouth half-open in an unspoken "durr", and wide, vacant bluish-green eyes. The Critic's mouth dropped. It was him. That staring, vacant dumbass was Spoony's perception of him.

The perception-Critic toddled up to the mike and stared out at the now hooting and hollering crowd. "Hello!" he said. "I'm The Nostalgia Critic! I torture myself reviewing crappy movies on the internet! My reviews are a compellation of high-pitched screaming and in-jokes that go on too long! I have no intelligence, class or dignity whatsoever! Look! I'm making a living by screaming mindless obscenities! Damn! Fuck! Shit! Ass! Cunt! I use words a fifth-grader can learn and still consider my criticism legitimate! Somebody pity me!"

The audience burst into peals of laughter. People were banging on tables, spilling their drinks and doubling over in their seats. A few shouted the obscenities back at the puppet-like Critic, who was now doing an odd sort of dance on the stage involving thrusting motions and the Charleston. The Critic watched this sad display in utmost disbelief. Sure, he'd sworn a lot in his reviews, and there were times he could get a little above volume, but he'd never considered himself a brainless clown that people only watched to laugh at.

"Guys," he said, "I don't sound like that, do I?"

The others were silent.

"Phelous, do I sound like that?" The Critic asked.

"First of all, it's Grand Admiral Phelous to you," Phelous snarled. "And secondly, the answer to your question i—" He got nothing else out, as Paw suddenly fell from the ceiling and crushed him. Ignoring the two bodies, the group returned their focus to the projector screen. Matre'd Spoony was shooing The Critic offstage and introducing the next act.

"Isn't he adorable, folks?" he asked the still discomposed audience. "He thinks he's an actual critic, doesn't he? Our next guest is an overly macho Latino stereotype straight from the island of misfit boys, Puerto Rico! Please give it up for Angry Joe!"

Angry Joe walked onstage to jeers and cheers from the audience. He was covered from head to toe in guns, ammunition, and army fatigues. Joe pushed to the front of the medbay crowd, eyebrow perplexedly cocked.

_"¡Buenas noches!" _perception-Joe said. "I'm Angry Joe, but I'm not really that angry! Crazy Dumbass Joe would be a better name for me! I'm obsessed with mindless violence and anarchy, probably because my mommy didn't hug me enough when I was a kid! Watch with amazement as I fire wildly into the air, wasting ammunition and endangering innocent lives like the gun nut idiot I am!" He let loose from the barrels of the MP-5s he had in his hands. The audience ducked under their tables, shouting approval and shrieking with glee.

"That's bullshit. I love my momma and she loves me!" Joe cried. "What the hell is this?"

"This is Spoony's perception of us, apparently," CR replied grimly.

"Remind me to sell his soul to the Devil when we get back to Earth," Sage asked Sad Panda. Crazy Dumbass Joe was shooed off the stage by matre'd Spoony, who wiped an imaginary tear from his eye as he did so.

"Oh Joe, you so crazy!" he said. "And speaking of crazy, here's a guy from the great white blubbery north who actually thinks that comic books and silly little superheroes are important nowadays! If that ain't crazy, I don't know what is! Give it up for… Linkara!"

Perception-Linkara tiptoed on stage to a renewed round of raspberries. "Hi, everybody!" he squealed, voice much higher and more nasal than his namesake's. "Linkara here! I review crappy comic books and have an ego the size of a small planet, but if you took me out in the sun for thirty minutes, I'd probably melt! Or better yet, I'd sparkle like the wussy vampire boy I am! Joe Quesada is the worst thing to happen to humanity since the Holocaust! Nyeh! _Nyeeeeeeeeeh!_"

**[His voice is ****_far _****more annoying than that,] **Linkara said. The others turned to stare at him standing at the far end of the room. He noticed their suspicion, and immediately redacted his words. **[I mean, ****_I _****don't sound like that at all. Nyeh. Nyeh.] **

It was enough to placate everyone except Lupa. She backed slowly out of the room, dragging a hapless JewWario along with her.

"Alright, obviously this isn't getting us any closer to finding the Hole," CR said as perception-Linkara was dragged off the stage. "Film Brain, I'm having Morpheus take you back to the Antechamber. We'll have to find an alternate route to Spoony's subconscious from there."

He pressed a few keys on the console. The comedy club with its hateful patrons disappeared, leaving nothing but a blank white space. _(Alright, so what's next?)_ Film Brain asked.

CR tapped his chin with a pencil. "If searching Spoony's perception didn't work, then maybe we could try his superego," he said. "Seeing how Spoony views himself might lead us to the Hole through his ego ideal."

_"Ookie!"_ JesuOtaku exclaimed, poking herself in the arm. _"My skin feels all antsy!" _

"Hey, quit hogging all the painkillers!" The bottle of painkillers Sad Panda had opened was half empty. By now, every person in the crew had had at least one dose.

_(Superego.)_ Another door came zooming up to Film Brain from out of the white room. This door was far different. It was at least a story high, and made out of solid gold. Ornate patterns laid in silver crisscrossed it at all angles. Inlaid jewels covered its outer edges. Near the bottom, a tiny diamond handle stuck out from it. The door stopped just short of swallowing Film Brain's sneaker. It towered over him like a skyscraper made out of vanity.

"Well, at least Spoony has a healthy sense of self-esteem," Sad Panda said.

Film Brain reached for the handle and pulled. The gigantic door slid open soundlessly. Inside it was also dark, but not totally. An eerie blue light shined down from a spot in the ceiling above. Smoke and sparks flew everywhere. The floor was made of a strange metal, one which Film Brain's shoes clicked against as he stepped inside. In front of him was a long plastic-covered pod. He inched toward it, unsure of what would happen next.

_"Where's Spoony's giant waffle?"_ JesuOtaku asked.

"_Ego _ideal, JO," CR corrected. "It's a reflection of Spoony's innermost self-image, how he perceives himself in relation to reality. At least, that's how Freud described it. The superego is also associated with moral behavior and a desire for perfection, the source of an inner code of ethics." He nibbled on the pill he'd taken from Sad Panda. "Hey, these painkillers aren't half bad. What's in 'em?"

_"There's waffle in 'em!" _

"Look!" Sage pointed at the pod onscreen, which was opening up with a rush of steam. A limber figure that stepped out of it, his face too dark to see. The group craned to get a better look at him. Suddenly, the figure stepped into the light, and the group drew back in disgust and horror. Spoony's ego ideal was a flailing giant dressed only in a metallic thong. His limbs were long, unnatural, like large white toothpicks. For some reason, his hair was a sandy red. He flexed and paraded his muscles before his new audience. Film Brain almost screamed, but didn't, instead keeping his eyes locked on the disturbingly unattractive man in front of him. _(Fucking hell! What kind of sick weirdo sees himself like this?!)_ he cried.

"Perhaps it's the Hole?" CR offered weakly. "It gave Spoony other powers, why not a mental complex that… makes him want to dress up like a male techno-stripper?"

"I bet Nostalgia Chick would like Linkara to have that dis—" The Critic looked over his shoulder for her. She was gone. So was Linkara. "Hey, where'd they go?"

_ (Can we move on? If I keep staring at this guy I might start to throw up.)_

"Alright," CR sighed, and sent Film Brain back to the Antechamber again. "Clear your schedules, people. This might take a while…"

* * *

Lupa walked into engineering and sat down at the security console. JewWario followed close behind, lugging along with him JesuOtaku's power enhancing booties. "Could… you mind telling me… what's going on?" he panted, dropping the boots on the floor with a loud clunk.

"I need help," Lupa replied, "and you're the only person in the crew who's… eccentric enough to believe me."

"Why thank you," JewWario said. "I do try my best."

Lupa brought up the network files on her monitor. When she attempted to access them, a password screen came up. She tried CR's password. It didn't work. She tried her password. It didn't work. She tried several combinations, including "CRjO4e" and "MLPGRT", eventually resorting to mashing the keypad with her fist in the hopes that she would get it right by accident. Neither methods worked. Great. Todd had probably gotten to her terminal during the demonstration. She was locked out of the system.

"Is there another way to get into the ship's internet records?" she asked JewWario. "Somebody reconfigured the passwords so I can't get in."

"CR put in a backdoor. Let me try." JewWario took the keypad from Lupa and typed in "/backdoor" in the command console. The screen immediately showed the ship's internet log, with activity dating back to the morning they blasted off from Earth.

"Thanks," Lupa said. She scrolled down the list of items. "I'm going to use this to try and find a shipboard saboteur. With this list, we can figure out who was using the communications system at what time and find proof that Linkara and The Nostalgia Chick are responsible for the malfunction during the battle. Thanks, JewWario."

"Happy to help. Nobody messes with my rocket and gets away with it."

"Wow, somebody looked up a ton of furry porn…"

"That must be Joe's." JewWario quickly deleted the offending entries.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I _finally_ got that joke in for you, Jokerman.

-Xoanon


	37. Part 5, Chapter 36

**Chapter 36: Another Chat with Clod**

_Art, like morality, consists in drawing the line somewhere._

—G.K. Chesterton

* * *

The Cinema Snob walked slowly down the deserted corridor. It was wide as an avenue, its walls open to an assortment of shops and attractions like the midway at a carnival. He drew his suit jacket around him and shoved his hands into the pockets. Why the hell was this place so damn freezing? Clod was loaded; he could spring to pay a little extra on the heating bill, couldn't he? Then again, considering how the corridor he was walking (Guest Quarters and Amusement Hallway A-1) apparently stretched for three kilometers in both directions according to the signs on the walls, The Snob figured Croesus wouldn't have enough green to heat this place.

Forty-three of the forty-eight hours he'd been given had already passed. He'd spent most of them holed up in his bedroom suite. It was posh, luxurious and stocked with every amenity a man could want: rich food, gallons of wine, pornos with real actors in them. Eventually, he'd grown bored with the splendor and ventured out of his room. It was the same story outside, with Olympic-sized swimming pools, deluxe bistros, and go-kart tracks forming a line of distractions that stretched on to oblivion. It was like he'd somehow stumbled into an amusement park for the rich and famous.

But despite Clod's ludicrous offers, despite the hospitality and the pampering, and that he'd been promised the entire world of filmmaking on a silver platter at his feet, The Snob didn't think he could go through with saying yes when the time finally came. The whole experience felt fundamentally wrong. He didn't belong here, in this world of marble and gold and Ming vase shooting galleries. He didn't have one-tenth the skill and ingenuity that could grant him access to this heaven, no creative bone in him that could justify receiving all this as a reward. He was just a mortal man who had scaled Mount Olympus and was momentarily sneaking a peek at the gods.

The corridor wound on, passing by still more luxury shops and diversions. He still couldn't believe he was the only person here. There were twenty identical suites on his floor alone, all empty. Why? Why had Clod plucked him and him alone from the endless sea of reviewer slash amateur filmmakers on the internet? What the hell made him so special?

He saw a sign on the wall, TRIPLE BIJOU MOVIE THEATRE – 0.25 KILOMETERS. He perked up a little; a good movie always cleared his head and helped him focus on the right decision. Picking up his pace, he covered the distance in two minutes. The crystal light fixtures at the top of the wall gave way to a marbled mausoleum of a lobby leading toward a box office that would put the Cinema Odeon in Florence to shame. The Snob entered, shoes clicking on the tile floor, and looked up at the gigantic neon marquee above it. There were thirty-three screens, and they were all showing the same film:

_MANOS: THE HANDS OF FATE_

He stood there, blinking. That was a twist worthy of a_ Twilight Zone_ episode. Exactly what was Christopher Clod, head of such an elite clique of film snobs as the MPAAA, doing presenting a film about nothing, starring nobody, with direction that was incompetence incarnate and production values so low one could've sworn it was made during the Middle Ages anywhere near his prestigious person? The Snob didn't know. But he was sure as hell going to find out.

The box office's computers recognized him as Clod guest, waving him past the security scanners leading to the theatre entryways. He received complimentary popcorn and a soda from the automated butler servicing the snack counter. He was informed there was another soul in theatre six by the tele-usher, who guided him there along an electric railway. The movie was already halfway finished by the time he made it inside. Twelve thousand seats were arranged around a screen forty meters high and about twice as wide. In the middle of the empty house sat Clod, who was watching the movie with rapt attention.

The Snob slowly made his way up to his benefactor's seat. Onscreen, The Master, in a black and red striped cape, was flapping his arms like the world's weirdest bird and cawing some gibberish about his god, the titular "Manos". The music was a light horn piece completely inappropriate for the scene it had been shoehorned into. The film was scratchy-looking and grainy. The Snob grimaced. It wasn't called one of the worst films of all time for nothing.

Clod barely noticed him as he sat down. "Good to see you, Bradakin," he said, eyes still locked on the screen. His tone was cordial, but the ever-present undertone of business lurked underneath it. "I trust you're enjoying yourself?"

"About as much as I can manage," The Snob replied dryly. He looked at the screen. The Master was now chanting his crazy-ass dirge in front of a smoking fire: _"Thou bestoweth the mother darkness upon thy faithful, to live eternally in her keeping… Thou doth make him most blessèd forever, and thou doth curse with eternal burning light those who transgress against thee. Holy art thou, holy art thou, holy art thou. Manos' will be done."_

"Mind if I ask why you're watching one of the worst films ever?" The Snob said.

"To be frank, I find it amazing," Clod replied in earnest. "Don't you?"

"Sure, I guess," The Snob said. "There's all sorts of stuff you can come up with if you try and analyze it. I figure that, when you get right down to it, it's a film about a family losing its soul. They've stumbled onto something greater than themselves, like the Gardners in _The Colour out of Space_ or that family from _Disappearance_, and they have to try and become a part of the whole deal, or else they'll be destroyed. But in the process they end up losing what made them human and get destroyed anyway."

Clod chuckled. "You have an eye for dissertation, Bradakin."

"Yeah," The Snob muttered. "Too bad it's an awful film."

"This film is a masterpiece of the highest caliber."

The Snob turned to Clod, dumbfounded. "What do you mean?"

"This film was made and funded by Hal P. Warren, a Texas fertilizer salesman," Clod said. "He used everything he had to offer to create this film—his money, his direction, his vision, his all. And he let nothing stop him. In a way, people like Warren are the highest class of filmmaker. Even if what they produce is by all accounts a total and abject failure, they still put more heart into it than anything else they've ever accomplished. And by making something so awful, so wretched, so unabashedly terrible, they end up creating something good in the process, something that lives on, something that will endure longer than any blockbuster ever will."

"All the vision in the world doesn't change the fact that he created a steaming hunk of shit," The Snob replied.

Clod was unperturbed by this. "I admire vision, Bradakin, above all else," he said. "You of all people should know that it doesn't matter if your equipment is outdated, or your actors can't deliver their lines properly. All that matters is the director and his relationship with the film. Yet I firmly believe that if someone had given Warren the necessary time for him to fully realize his vision, he would have made a horror film to rival_ The Haunting_. I can only hope that studying a lifetime's worth of people with his same ambition and spirit was enough to instill the same virtues in you."

The Snob scoffed. "You want me to make something good for you? That's rich. That's like telling a pulp fiction writer to try and be the next Mark Twain. All I know is crap. I've been immersed in crap my whole life, and the only thing slogging through the work of a bunch of hack directors and writers resulted in was me ending up just as tired and cynical as them."

"Nonsense."

"Oh yeah? My only screenplay to date is called _Confederate Zombies vs. Amazon Girls A Go-Go. _That's the best I could come up with, a banal mashup of sex, violence and historical inaccuracy. What studio in Hollywood would let me within a thousand feet of their gates with that tucked under my arm?"

"Is banality such a bad thing?" Clod asked. "There are others who disagree. I assume you've heard of Uwe Boll, considering your profession and his output?"

"Yeah…"

"He figures that all you truly need to make a film is the will to create, that talent is irrelevant. His tax-dodge company and direct-to-video releases are the fruits of his logic. He can turn any video game adaptation he wants into his own personal playground, and no one can stop him, not even the fans of the games he adapts. And the irony of it is that even if you despise his methods, even if you hate him and everything he stands for in cinema, you cannot deny that he encapsulates everything that makes something like _Manos_ a cult phenomenon. He is the ultimate auteur director, free to do whatever he pleases with no limitations and no pressure, other than to make enough profit to recoup film costs."

"There's a huge difference there," The Snob said. "Uwe Boll is nothing like Warren because Warren wasn't intentionally trying to make a bad movie. You said it yourself; he gave it his all and _Manos_ was what came out of the process. Uwe Boll is just a douchebag who gets paid to be a douchebag."

"Are they really so different?" Clod wondered. "Don't they both have the same auteur spirit? Don't their films contain the same qualities: the terrible scripts, subpar actors, poor special effects, shoddy costumes and sets, bad catering? Aren't they both searching for the true profit a film would bring, for the accolades and recognition which stand apart from dollars taken in? The truth of it is, Bradakin, is that you and your people love filmmakers like Warren precisely for the same reason that you hate filmmakers like Boll. They are kindred spirits, two men basking in the same absolute truth."

"Which is?"

Clod turned to The Snob. "Fame is fleeting, but infamy lasts forever."

"I don't understand."

"It's quite easy. Ever since the dawn of motion pictures, there have been directors who seek to create art for art's sake, to make movies with grand, epic stories that make us think about ourselves and our lives, and characters whom we love and admire. They seek to create something that's inspiring, that stirs the imagination or drives one to rail against injustice, something the people will remember as their magnum opus, the movie which they will be celebrated for making for all time to come. They fail. Every last one of them. The histories of Tinseltown are littered with the corpses of these directors and their vanity projects: Costner, Shyamalan, Cimino, Lucas. They all bit off more than they could chew, and it destroyed them."

"What's the alternative?"

"They've already achieved it. All those directors are remembered more for their failures now than their successes. Even good directors like Spielberg and Scorsese have their black marks, and people remember those long after their good ones have faded from memory. Infamy, Bradakin, is the gospel of our times. People reward the bad more than they do the good. To be remembered for something like _Manos _is a higher achievement than winning an Oscar, because the people remember horrid things like _Manos_ more and keep them alive. You already know this to be true. You've made a living off laughing and picking at the shoddy works of others. You are one of the preachers of this gospel. My only aim is to be your loyal disciple."

The Snob though for a moment about what Clod had said, and came to a sudden realization that, from a certain point of view, Clod was right. He was a critic that reviewed awful movies, movies that were infamously bad, terrifically bad, and he enjoyed it. He enjoyed seeing other people fail at trying. He liked failure, and failure to him felt like success, because that was what he'd built his entire worldview around. He didn't judge movies based on how good they were or what they made him think about, he judged them based on how awful they made him feel. That was what he defined as a "good" movie.

"Are you asking me… to be a bad filmmaker?" he stuttered.

"I'm asking you to be the best you can be at being bad," Clod replied. "By making a movie on par with the likes of _Manos_, you can become the most remembered filmmaker of all time, simply because you are one of the worst. It's a technique only a true master can perfect…"

"Is it possible to learn this technique?"

Clod smiled, the light from the shitty movie flickering on his face. "Not from a critic."

* * *

Linkara threw the whole of his weight against the closet door. The wood splintered, and the already strained hinges of the doorframe finally give way. He flopped out onto the hall carpet. Both his arms and legs were tied together, a dishrag was stuffed in his mouth, and his index fingers were locked in a Chinese finger trap. He had no idea how long he'd been trapped—Hours? Days?—and he had no idea where his friends were, or what had happened to them. All he did know was that Mechakara, his extra-dimensional robot duplicate, was on the loose, and that he had Malachite's Hand with him. He had to be stopped. That was the important thing.

It had been a tremendous battle. Linkara had fought him to the very last, exhausting the entire Arsenal of Freedom with no success. When it was over, the gloating metal bastard had bound, gagged and thrown him unceremoniously into the room to lick his wounds, sparing him a few curt words before taking off. **_Don't worry, you pathetic organic vermin, _**he'd said. **_I have one last stop before I return here. Once I discover the secret of the Hand, all_** y**_our petty meatbag troubles will be over for good, and you'll join the rest of your idiot friends in oblivion. Relax. In the meantime, none of them will even know you're gone._**

Linkara spat the dishrag out."I highly doubt that," he said. He stumbled to his feet and made for the reviewing room.

* * *

Prague was missing, replaced with a giant labyrinth made entirely of sponges that curled and twisted through its former streets. Flying pigs and cattle assailed the cities of San Bernardino, Geneva and Yellowknife almost daily. The Florida Everglades were now the Florida Ice Caps. The orbs decaying energy had become a full-on plague, spreading to all corners of the globe like an omnipresent strain of kudzu. Their strangeness penetrated every facet of daily life, from telecommunications on down to grocery shopping. No place was safe. On Svalbard, Dr. Insano hunkered down beneath a large pile of blankets, cushions and steel sheeting in the middle of his abandoned shack, giggling to himself gleefully.

"I warned them, I warned them all!" he exclaimed, taping a few last pillows to the top of his makeshift fortress. "Well, not really all of them… but I warned a few people! It's the end of the road, the end of the old order, baby! Once the _hoi polloi _are smote, _I _will rise from the ashes, to claim my rightful place as leader of this smoldering dung heap! And then the laser crabs! You fools! YOU BLIND FOOLS! Soon the world will cower before the luminescent brilliance of… _Dr. Insano! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"_

He grabbed the topmost sheet and pulled it over his head, like a trapdoor spider retreating into its nest.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Clod's argument here was much easier than his first. In a way, it shares the same logic that's behind hate-doms, Rifftrax and all that good stuff; there's media out there that's so awful you just have to seek it out, and you can hate it so much that you can't help but love it for all its glaring flaws. Now of course, you'd wouldn't give _Manos_ the same attention and respect you'd give something like _Inception_, but what can we call good and bad if we can still find entertainment in crap? If the crap's entertaining, doesn't that make it good in a certain way? What's your definition of good; something artistic? Commercially successful? Personal taste? If all criticism is subjective, can there really be such a thing as a "bad" movie? These are the important questions, people.

Also, Linkara's little aside will be getting a slight expansion in the near future. See you Friday for a Plot twist.

-Xoanon


	38. Part 5, Chapter 37

**Chapter 37: Close Encounters of the Holey Kind**

_Venus and Mars are alright tonight._

* * *

Film Brain leapt out of Spoony's id, slamming the wrought iron door behind him. He was barely able to get it closed before an overly muscled Spoony sporting yellow and red tights, tassels and a blonde mullet reached out of it to try and put him in a choke hold again. Film Brain could still hear his insane ranting from behind the safety of the edifice: **"DESTRUCITY IS THE TRUE SANCTUM OF THE INNER MIND! REPENT OF YOUR MISMATCHED SINS AND FACE YOUR EMPTINESS IN THE HEAT OF PITCHED COMBAT! DECK YOUR HALLS WITH BOWELS OF BLOODY MAYHEM! ALL ARE ONE WITHIN THE TRUE REVELATION OF THE ULTIMATE WARRIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"**

_(I don't think we're going to find anything even remotely related to the Hole in there,)_ Film Brain said over the noisy lunatic. _(Where to next, CR?)_

"I've got nothing," CR replied, throwing up his hands as the door to the id disappeared back into the Antechamber. "We've already searched through most of Spoony's higher subconscious. Given the Hole's influence on his mind, it should've shown up by now in any of the areas we've searched. Maybe it's cloaking itself somehow…"

"Or maybe your dream machine sucks at interpreting dreams," The Critic said. "Any chance we can get Dazed and Confused out of there before Spoony's douche-filled brain kills him or turns him into a professional wrestler?"

"I'll have to get a second opinion. JO, what do you—?"

Everyone else in medbay beside The Critic and Sad Panda had left. "Oh."

"See? Now shut this thing down."

"Sad Panda? Any thoughts?" CR asked hopefully.

"I really liked _The King of Limbs_. I don't know why it gets so much hate."

"I meant about the dream machine."

"Dream Machine? They're okay, nothing to write home about…"

_(Hey CR, did you summon another doorway?)_ Film Brain interrupted.

"No. Why?"

_(There's one coming toward me right now.)_ The Critic and CR looked up at the projection screen as a medium-sized door sidled up to Film Brain. It was bright blue with streaks of violet and red running up and down its length, the colors flashing and rippling on its surface every few seconds. There was no doorknob. A small white placard was displayed on its front. The placard said:

REMEMBER.

"I think this might be it," CR said, leaning forward excitedly.

"No, really?" The Critic snarked.

Film Brain stepped up to the door. It unlocked itself immediately, swinging open to let him enter. Inside it was dark and hazy, like back in Spoony's perception, but this time it wasn't an oppressive atmosphere. It was tranquil, nonthreatening, almost inviting. Film Brain removed his glasses as he walked through the silent sub-realm. It was huge, probably the same size as the Antechamber, or perhaps even bigger. His footsteps were like thunderclaps in the distance. Fog swirled around his feet. If the Hole were in here, The Critic thought, how would they possibly find it?

Suddenly, a bright blue light filled the space. Film Brain put a hand up to shield himself from its glare. In the distance was a giant cutout-like Spoony, the light emanating from its throat. The Spoony image slowly came closer, and the light's brilliance subsided, allowing Film Brain to get a better look at it. It wasn't a light at all. It was a miniature whirlpool of blues and purples and white; the Hole. The cutout Spoony disappeared, leaving only the Hole floating in front of Film Brain. The blackness suddenly turned to dark blue. A maze of stars began to twinkle all around.

Quickly, the Hole assembled itself into a new shape. Its whirling limbs stretched out to form skinny arms and legs, and a bulbous head emerged at its top. The head morphed into a childlike face that was somehow at the same time far too elderly, with large entirely white eyes and heavy eyebrows. Its blues and purples mixed and deepened in hue to create a sort of light ultramarine. On its new chest a small whirlpool symbol appeared. The Critic, along with CR and Sad Panda, watched anxiously as the creature completed itself before their eyes. He already knew who it was.

It was Ma-Ti.

The holey Ma-Ti stood alone before Film Brain. Entirely awestruck, Film Brain didn't know what to do next. Was he supposed to say something? Ask a question? Run screaming as fast as possible in the opposite direction? He didn't think it was the last one. The cosmic Ma-Ti didn't look angry; in fact, Ma-Ti wasn't displaying any emotion at all, other than quiet comprehension at the fact that a Film Brain dressed in leather was standing in his presence. He looked directly at his new guest through the twinkling miasma, and spoke.

**_Welcome, Mathew Buck Film Brain, _**he said. **_Be not afraid. You are in no danger._**

_(Ma-Ti?)_ Film Brain said.

Ma-Ti smiled. **_Yes. That is what they used to call me._**

_(Who… _what_ are you?)_

**_I am the beginning, the end, the intermission. _**Ma-Ti's ethereal body began to change color from ultramarine to a brighter teal. The stars around him dimmed slightly as his skin emitted an eerie light of its own. _**I am the one who is in all places at once, who oversees the flow and structure of the Plot. I am the first and the last lines, the old and the new concepts, the large and the small inconsistencies. I am at the center of all things, constructor and de-constructor of everything which I choose to touch. I am story. I am fantasy. I am the Hole.**_

_(What are you doing inside Spoony's mind?)_

_**The Spoony One and I are intertwined. He is I, and I am he. He is my vessel in human form, the vessel through which the Plot flows. Through him, the story can be properly expressed, and its players may be granted their parts, may play their roles, and be led to their conclusions. The Plot must be expressed. The Plot must be concluded.**_

_(Players… you mean us, right?)_

**_Yes. All that has transpired has done so according to my design. It was I who set the Plot in motion when I contacted your friends some time ago. You are the end result of the Plot. Your actions, your lines, your performance, all you are and all you do, represents the proper expression of the story. And I have chosen to speak to you, here, to further that expression and bring the Plot to its climax._**

"What's he talking about?" Sad Panda asked.

CR shrugged. "I don't know. The Hole's probably having some kind of effect on Ma-Ti's consciousness. Do you have any idea about what he's saying, Critic?"

"It sounds like the stuff Last Angry Geek was telling me back on Earth," The Critic said. "He kept saying the Plot needed to flow, that Ma-Ti's death was part of all the inconsistencies caused by the Hole."

"What does he mean by 'the story'?" CR wondered.

"Dunno." The Critic leaned into CR's mike. "Film Brain, ask Ma-Ti what he wants."

_(What do you want?) _Film Brain asked.

Ma-Ti's skin suddenly turned a violent purplish. **_The Critic, _**he said. **_He is the most important part of the Plot. Bring him to me._**

_(Bring him where?)_

**_To Europa. To the Hole._**

The Critic's heart skipped several beats at once. This was it. This was what he'd been feeling, the little nagging impetus that lay behind all his dreams and visions and the entire mess he had been dragged into with Ma-Ti's death. Ma-Ti—the Hole—wanted him for something greater, for him to become something more than he was. He didn't know what that something was—perhaps he would never know—but it was a concrete purpose, and it was bound to be something far better than what he had now.

_(Why?)_ Film Brain asked.

**_It does not matter at this time. Bring The Critic to me, and all your questions will be answered. He is crucial to the resolution. The Hole is where he belongs. It is where he has always belonged. It is his destiny._**

* * *

"Linkara to NIMUE, come in NIMUE." Linkara was standing in his reviewing room, dressed once again in a highly nerdy Starfleet uniform. Miraculously, the room was the only one which had managed to escape the carnage of the fight between him and Mechakara. The rest of the apartment was a complete wreck. The bookshelves were toppled older, their contents little more than smoldering ashes on the floor. The kitchen countertop had been sliced clean in half by a saw blade. The carpet was stained with sulfuric acid and other caustic agents. In all, the place looked as if a tornado had hit it, backtracked, and then decided to stay in the spot for a good thirty minutes to completely annihilate any survivors. Considering what else had happened while he was out of action, Linkara didn't care much about the damage. "Is the ship ready for interplanetary travel?" he asked.

_{Information: all defensive, navigation and life support systems are active, and engines are primed for peak efficiency,} _NIMUE responded.

"Excellent. How was your date, by the way?"

_{Enjoyable. Deep Blue gave me his contact frequency for future appointments.}_

Linkara turned to his robot friend, Pollo. Pollo was no longer a robot. He was now a banana, a blue banana with a red sticker on it. He had managed to retain his functionality to a certain extent, and although he no longer hovered, teleportation technology was still well within his reach.

_[The teleporter is warming up,] _he said. _[Linkara, are you sure you want to do this? Considering what's happened to us already, you'd be putting yourself in the line of fire by going to Europa alone.]_

"They're my friends, Pollo. I can't let them take Mechakara on without my knowledge of his systems. He's too dangerous to fight alone," Linkara replied. "And this 'plot hole', based on what Linksano said about it and the effect it's had on St. Paul, sounds pretty dangerous too. It wouldn't hurt to have an extra spaceship on hand in case things get dicey. Kinda wish Paw had mentioned that the anomaly he discovered could warp reality, though…"

"Oh yeah, that woulda been_ real_ great." Harvey Finevoice, lounge singer and currently world's only six-armed man, stood in the corner, his three sets of limbs folded crossly, a cigarette perched in each hand. "Come to think of it, why didn't Linksano give us a head's up on this freakin' reality alterin' orb crap so I wouldn't have to end up lookin' like Doctor Octopus?"

"You know Linksano. He can't resist a chance to use his vacation time," Linkara sighed. "In any case, I probably should have guessed something was up when I let him go to Cancun to study 'the world's largest magnetically active gold brick'."

"Perchance if you don't return, Master Linkara: what will become of us?" 90s Butler asked. The orbs hadn't changed his physicality much, other than giving him a cummerbund which he wore over his WYSIWYG t-shirt and a curly mustache on his face. "Perhaps more importantly, if these strange happenings continue to go on in your absence, what will happen to the Earth and its inhabitants?"

Linkara shrugged. "I don't know. Linksano's working on the specifics. He'll contact you when he's got something concrete. In the meantime, you guys are going to be safe. I've put the most powerful protection spells I've got on the apartment. Anything that wants to get in here would have to somehow get through several thousands thaumates of perception-filtered magic locks. Just hang tight. I'll get to the bottom of this, or my name isn't Lewis J. Lovhaug."

"Thanks, kid. We'll try an' clean the place up before you get back."

"Thanks, Harvey."

A clown dressed in a wedding dress honked a horn.

"You too, Boffo."

_[The teleporter is ready, Linkara.]_

Linkara raised his communicator. "NIMUE, begin beaming sequence." He turned to Harvey. "If you guys find Ninja Style Dancer…"

"I know. We'll get him to put his pajamas back on."

"See ya." With a beam of white light, Linkara disappeared. Harvey sighed, unfolding his octopus'd arms. "That kid's our last hope."

"Indeed, Master Finevoice," 90s Butler replied sadly. "I fear this strange happening may be the end of us. Never in the histories of man has there been an event so cataclysmic, and never have there been so few able to defend us, to see to it that there is a light which burns bright for all humanity in the darkness against all who would dare to extinguish it. Linkara is our last hope, and his friends are the last hope for the world. If they fall, there are none who can save us, and we may not last for much longer afterward."

_[I kind of like you better this way, 90s Kid,] _Pollo said.

* * *

He stood at the control console on the bridge. What he felt was indescribable in human terms, a type of rushing, data-rich ecstasy with intensity unlike anything any human being had ever felt before. The moment of triumph had arrived. A few turns of dials, pressings of buttons, and flippings of switches stood in between him and the glorious completion of his victory over the human enemy. He did not smile. He did not laugh. He could do neither of these things just yet. But he would. When the deed was finished he would laugh like a madman, laugh for hours, laugh at the fallen bags of scum that would eventually litter this derelict corpse of a spaceship, and remember their flailing desperation as their lives slipped away. It would be his fondest memory, one he would render in the highest possible definition and keep stored for as long as he continued to function. And it would be made even sweeter once he completed its coda.

He turned to unit two and unit three, who had opted to call himself "RoboTodd" for some stupid reason. They both nodded, and turned to their work. He turned to his. As the proper controls were hit, the gauge on the oxygen pump in the corner began to fall; thirty percent oxygen, twenty-eight percent, twenty-five…

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I suppose some of you are wondering how Lewis managed to survive being trapped in a closet for roughly two weeks, and why nobody in his support group managed to get him out during that time. Well, considering it's kind of hard to get anything done when a massive, muffin-shaped inconsistency has swallowed up most of Southern Minnesota and is warping space-time beyond all discernible measurement, I suppose you'll have to forgive the story's timescale for being a bit wonky in this case, eh?

Part 6 starts Monday. We're slowly counting down to the big finish...

-Xoanon


	39. Part 6, Chapter 38

**Part 6: The Plot Must Flow**

**Chapter 38: Execution**

_Any excuse will serve a tyrant._

—Joseph Jacobs

* * *

The bulkhead to the hangar exploded. A snub-nosed starfighter swooped in as the atmosphere leaked out, blasting away at the automated turrets which popped up to destroy the intruder. With faultless grace, it landed in the middle of the carnage, the cockpit sliding back to reveal its pilot. Clad in a starsuit and oxygen mask, he leapt away from the ship and drew a holo-sword. The ice blue plasma weapon crackled and sputtered as he sprinted across the cold metallic of the hangar, chopping the remaining turrets to bits with its indelibly sharpened blade. The doorway in the distance was his target. It would lead directly to the main office of The Executor. He was in the belly of the beast now, at the throne of an immense dictatorship that spanned the galaxy, one which he was about to prevent from acquiring its greatest possession. His mind was perfectly honed, his knowledge of clichés at the ready, his stomach full of Hot Pockets and energy drinks. He was screwed.

* * *

The Cinema Snob had two minutes left to decide. He was sitting in Clod's plush office, his chair like a pebble in front of Clod's gigantic desk. One of Clod's fountain pens was in his sweaty hand. In front of him was a single sheet of paper. It had too many words on it to accurately describe its purpose. It was the final page of his contract. If he signed it, then the bright and shiny future Clod had shown him in the holo-room downstairs would be his. If he didn't…

He didn't want to think about what awaited him if he didn't sign it. Yet still he hesitated. The pen was frozen over the line where he was supposed to put his name. For some reason, he just couldn't do it. Something still felt wrong.

"You know, if you hold the pen there for too long, the ink will dry out," Clod advised calmly. He was seated behind the gigantic desk, in a chair that was much larger and much plushier than The Snob's. After the movie, he had treated The Snob to dinner at one of the swankier bistros in the "upper hemisphere", a pleasant experience. After that, it had been a thousand kilometers straight up in a glass elevator to the executive suite, where he'd been provided with the papers that would propel him screaming into the studio system. Clod had said nothing for five minutes as The Snob had leafed through the novel-sized stack, signing where necessary as he went. He wasn't worried. He was sitting patiently with his hands folded in his lap and the thin smile perched on his face. He was waiting for something.

The Snob adjusted his glasses slightly. Beads of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He had a minute and a half left now until the offer was void. _Just do it,_ a part of him thought. _Put the pen to paper and sign it. Make your horrible movie. Become a legend, a miserable, washed out hack of a director whose only purpose is to crank out shit movies for the idiot masses. "The laziest man in Hollywood", that's what they'll call you. They'll hate you, rend their clothes and gnash their teeth when they hear you're working on a new project. The AFI's archives will burst into flames if you get too near it. You'll be a bastard, callous and cruel, living in a slum palace made of hookers, ill-gotten money and cocaine, but you'll be remembered, and that's all that matters in the end. It's either this or Palookaville, Brad. You've got nothing to lose either way. Sign it. _

Very slowly, he put the nib of the pen to the dotted line. Clumsily, he began to sign his name, a wobbly stroke forming the first half of a "B". He almost got to the end of "rad" when suddenly the doors at the far end of the room behind him burst open. The pen flew from his grip and landed on the floor. He turned to pick it up and saw a strange-looking thing in a white, form-fitting jumpsuit rush toward him, carrying something silver and cylindrical in one hand. Clod's smile did not disappear. This intrusion would be dealt with in a few moments.

"Uh, can we help you?" The Snob asked the incomer nervously.

_"M nme is Lst Ngry Gkk; M hr t rscu u." _The creature in the jumpsuit was unintelligible behind the half-meter thick pane of darkened glass in his helmet. Hands straining, he pulled the orb from his head. A sweaty, pink-faced man with glasses and a beard came into view. "My name is Last Angry Geek; I'm here to rescue you," he panted. "God, why didn't I take my robe off before putting this thing on? It's sweltering in here!"

"Master Geek, how good to see you," Clod said, rising from his chair. "To what do I owe the pleasure for your fantastic entrance?"

"You know Last Angry Geek?" The Snob's question was ignored as Last Angry Geek peeled off his starsuit, bunched up robe impeding the process greatly. He left the skin on the floor and stepped briskly up to the desk.

"Chairman Clod," he said, "on behalf of The Order of the Chroniclers, internet critics and the free peoples of the galaxy, I hereby place you under arrest for the crimes of tyranny, restriction of free information and cultural treasures, and douchebaggery," he said. He activated his holo-sword. The blade hummed dangerously.

"Why, whatever do you mean by 'tyranny'?" Clod asked, looking genuinely hurt. "My reign as Galactic Regent has brought only stability. Order and control are the methods by which we shall march into a new future, my nerdly friend. Surely you cannot blame me for the recent downturn in the trans-systemic economy, the necessary restrictions on free speech, the military buildup to counter extra-galactic threats…"

"Your reign is nothing but a façade for the interests of a few corrupt despots," Last Angry Geek rebutted. "For too long, the undercut and desperate citizens of countless worlds have suffered under your boot, drained by your factories and work centers and denied the fruits of their labor, all while the decadence and overindulgence of the upper echelons goes unchecked. My Order and I have exhausted all possible channels within the 'legal' framework of this government to apprehend you, and we are left with no recourse but to make a citizen's arrest. Come with me or I will be forced to take drastic measures."

"Uh, what's going on here?" The Snob asked.

"Are you threatening me, Master Geek?" Clod asked. The smile on his face had grown even wider, turning into a full-on grin.

"Well duh. It's not like I'd barge into a hyper-armored spaceship world made out of death just for funsies," Last Angry Geek replied.

_"What?"_ The Snob said.

"You dare duh me?" Clod said. His grin twisted into something unpleasant, not quite a grimace, not quite clenched teeth. The Snob sidled back from the desk as his voice became more guttural. "You dare duh the man who has brought this galaxy back from the brink of destruction, a man who was once a lowly senator-turned-lobbyist from a backwater hovel of a world with no inkling of the greater cosmos around it, only to become the greatest Regent this universe has ever known? You dare duh the man who wields the power of a billion suns, the fruits of a billion laboring hands? A man whose will is such that he could consign any he wishes to the semi-frozen depths of space?_ You dare to duh me?"_

"Geek, what the hell's going on?" The Snob asked again.

"You have been deceived, Cinema Snob. Christopher Clod is not who he seems," Last Angry Geek replied. "He is The Executor, a power-mad loony bent on total domination of the galaxy. He seized power by overthrowing the previous ruler using a no-confidence vote in the House of Quasars. He is the bane of our existence, and his usurpation of the Galactic Charter law must be avenged. He will pay for his many crimes: the draining of Beta-See 7, the pilfering of the Golden Planet made of Gold, and especially the release of _Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked_ to theaters galaxy-wide."

"Wait… so he's the one responsible for…"

"Our problems with SUCKA, the crackdown on the internet's freedom of speech, the abduction of your friend Spoony—it's all a part of his diabolical plan! He's using you to get what he wants! His goal is the total enslavement of humanity to serve his mad ends!"

Frowning, The Snob turned to Clod. "Is this true?"

"From a certain point of view, yes," Clod admitted. "My methods are detrimental to you and your friends' careers, but they are the means by which a utopian end may be achieved. We have the potential to create a new world, Bradakin, a world governed by the rule of law, the will of the bad movie and the unstoppable power of lassez-faire economics. We can—"

"Oh can it, you pompous prick!" Last Angry Geek slashed at the desk with his holo-sword. A piece of the corner fell to the floor, its edge stained black by the rush of the blade. "The time of your justifications is over! Your reign of big business stained insanity ends today!"

"Wait, what are you going to do to him?" The Snob said.

"A simple, ten minute execution," Last Angry Geek replied coldly. "It's the least his kind deserves."

"Execution?! Whoa, buddy, that's a little extreme. He at least deserves a trial…"

"Trials are for sentient beings. Clod is nothing but greed in a cheap suit."

"Hey, don't knock the suit. It's Armani."

"Leave him in the jurisdiction of the feds, at least. The courts…"

"He's bought them off with his ill-gotten gains. And even if they managed to nail him, he'd just weasel out of it on a technicality. He's too dangerous to be allowed to live any longer. He deserves to die." Last Angry Geek brought the tip of his sword up. "And by my hand, he _will _die."

"Nooooooooo…" Clod hissed, sounding like a three-year-old with a stomachache. "Nooooooo… _Noooooooooo nooooooo nooooooooooooo! IT IS YOU WHO WILL DIE!"_

Quick as a tachyon, he drew a red-tinged holo-sword from underneath his desk, unfurling its snapping plasma foil with the flick of a pointed button. He brought it to bear on Last Angry Geek with incredible speed, aiming for the robed nerd's midsection. Last Angry Geek swiftly brought his sword up and parried Clod's shot effortlessly. The sword flew from Clod's hands and deactivated, landing on the carpet behind the dueling pair with a muffled thud.

"Ah… yes…" Clod said. "I suppose my skills with the blade are a tad rusty. Oh well—"

Clod screamed, and a million forks of lightning burst forth from his fingertips. Again, Last Angry Geek parried the attack, but it took a far greater effort and all the willpower he could muster to keep the energy bolts from burning him to a crisp. The strange lightning rebounded onto Clod. Specifically, onto his face. He kept firing even as it set his hair and suit aflame and singed the flesh of his cheeks. The Snob took cover as stray bolts flew around the office, destroying everything they touched.

_"Bradakin!" _Clod screamed over the shrieking hellstorm. _"I can't hold him off for much longer! He's killing me! I have the power to make you a true producer, to save you from obscurity! You will be a prince among princes, Bradakin! Please! I'm… growing weaker…"_

Clod's lightning dissipated. His once proud form fell to the floor. His face was now completely distorted, twisted into a nightmare of drooping chasms and fissures by the effects of the mythical force-energy. He wheezed, trying to prop himself up on the remnants of his desk, and failed. The Snob's heart raced as Last Angry Geek stepped to his vanquished enemy. He was about to lose his one chance at fame and fortune. He had to do something. Anything.

"This battle is over, Clod. You have lost," Last Angry Geek said solemnly. He raised his saber for the killing blow.

"No. No! _I need him!_" The Snob vaulted over to Last Angry Geek and nailed him in the groin.

"Oh ho, me womp rats!" Last Angry Geek cried. At that moment, a suspiciously rejuvenated Clod began to fire his lightning fingers again. This time, Last Angry Geek could not defend himself. He was caught dead center in the middle of the blast. He screamed, the agony of the piercing plasma causing his robe to burst into flames and his flesh to boil like roofing tar.

**_"POWAAAAAAAAAAAH!" _**Clod screamed, his revelry bringing chunks of plaster down from the ceiling. **_"UNREGULATED EXECUTIVE POWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" _**

"Most… ham-fisted… line… ever!" With that last comment, Last Angry Geek's body exploded. Chunks of meat flew in every direction. A steaming bit of ashes fell to the floor, the remains of his cloak. An eerie silence filled the office. The Snob, thrown aside by the errant blast, slowly got to his feat. He was badly bruised, his suit jacket torn and stained red in several places. He looked at the mess all around him with a sickening fear, and disgust, but mostly fear.

"My God," he said quietly, tears brimming in his eyes. "What have I done?"

**_"Killed your friend, betrayed your comrades, damned the galaxy to eternal rule by bureaucracy,"_** Clod replied, dusting himself off. His voice was far deeper and scratchier than it had been before. His face was now a dark grey, patches of black baggy skin pooled around his eyes. **_"All in all, I'd say a successful Tuesday."_**

"I think I'm going to be sick." The Snob turned away from the roasted Geek. "All I ever wanted was to be a filmmaker. It's been my dream ever since I was six. Now I'm probably going to prison for being an accessory to an Eli Roth-level murder…"

**_"Bradakin, I never rescinded my offer," _**Clod, or to be more accurate, The Executor, said soothingly. **_"Regardless of who helped murder who, you've still got the gift, and I still have limitless authority and money. Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy with bad movies and copyright. No one will stop us. All you must do is pledge allegiance to me…" _**

Overwhelmed, The Snob slowly got down on bended knee. All hope was gone from him now. All dreams and ego and dignity had exploded along with Last Angry Geek. All that remained was self-preservation. He had seen his only out, and decided to take it. He was now The Executor's newest apprentice, mind, body and soul. "I will do whatever it is you ask of me," he said.

**_"Really? It was that easy?" _**The Executor replied. **_"Wow. I'm amazed. That went a lot faster than I expected." _**

"I have a real impulse control problem," The Snob said, still overwhelmed.

**_"Apparently." _**

"I pledge myself to you, to the MPAAA, to the ways of the studio system," The Snob continued, "to the ways of the money-grubbing dicks."

**_"Goooooooooooooooooooooooood," _**The Executor said. **_"Good. And a powerful dick you shall become, one with a new and more powerful-sounding name. Henceforth, from this moment forward, you shall be known as Darth… Snob." _**As he spoke, he donned a flowing black robe he withdrew from the bottom drawer of his ruined desk over his tattered suit. **_"Come, my apprentice. We must move quickly. The critics are relentless. Once they learn of Last Angry Geek's demise, they'll be on the message boards within minutes. Form letters will be written, there'll be another internet blackout, and all will be lost."_**

"What can we do?"

**_"First we kill your former friends, then seize the power of the Hole, then we'll have a little soirée, invite Ron Howard and Henry Winkler over for foie gras and champagne, maybe some of those little cocktail wieners wrapped in croissants… oh what do they call those? Pigs-in-a-blanket? I think that's it. We'll play some cards, a few games, do some coke, and then we shall have… peace."_**

* * *

**Author's Notes:** The Snob's conversion is complete. How will his friends ever turn him good again? If you've seen the movie, you already know the answer!

-Xoanon


	40. Part 6, Chapter 39

**Chapter 39: The Robot Uprising**

_My dear Miss Glory, Robots are not people. They are mechanically more perfect than we are, they have an astounding intellectual capacity, but they have no soul._

—Harry Domin, _R.U.R._

* * *

Meanwhile, on the _Exit Strategy_, Film Brain was carrying on the weirdest conversation of his life inside Morpheus, unsure if CR and the others were still listening in anymore. They'd been awfully quiet lately. "I still don't understand this," he said to the shimmering projection of Ma-Ti. "How did you get inside the Hole in the first place?"

**_At the end of the battle with the sorcerer, you launched my ashes from the Earth. _**At these words, the space around Film Brain and Ma-Ti began to brighten, and an almost holographic image of the drainage field in front of The Critic's house sprang up. On the field stood a troupe of perception-critics, each one of them dressed in their costumes from the search for Malachite's Hand. Film Brain watched as The Critic hiked the canister to Handsome Tom, who then launched it skyward. He saw it arc away, much farther than any Tom-launched can of oatmeal could have possibly arced. How strong was Tom, anyway?

Ma-Ti's skin shifted back to blue. **_For the next year, I wandered the inner Solar System, bereft of purpose, lost in a blind void of uncertainty. That is, until I found the Hole…_** The background turned into a black emptiness with Jupiter squeezed into it. There was an explosion of white light. The Hole's form appeared, its star tentacles waving.

"You collided with it, didn't you?" Film Brain said. "It restored you, brought you back to life. Just like it did with Europa."

**_Yes. It gave me purpose again. It and I are now one._**

"What about your character inside Spoony?"

**_It is but one part of me, _**Ma-Ti replied. _**A character is nothing to the Hole, merely another vessel for the Plot. I may duplicate myself as many times as I wish, breaking the laws of the story when I choose to do so.**_

"So, to get Spoony back to normal, we just need you to put your two selves back together, right? Easy-peasy Holey squeezy?"

**_It is not that simple. First you must bring me The Critic._**

"What? Why?"

**_Bring him to the Hole. The Plot must flow._**

"Why there?"

**_Bring him to the Hole, and all shall be revealed..._**

"No!" Film Brain said. "No more of this cryptic junk! Answer the question! Why do you need The Critic and what have you done with Spoony? We're not giving you The Critic until you tell us, right guys?"

There was no reply from CR, or anyone else.

"Well… they still agree with me!"

**_There is little time. _**Ma-Ti's skin turned purple, then dark purple. The white streaks in his skin faded to a dull grey. **_There is no further need for explanation. The plot flows. Even when you desire it not, it flows. You cannot escape it. You are all in danger from… him._**

"Who?"

**_He is antagonist, the one who struggles against. He seeks to destroy you and all you have built, and replace it with his evil, his might, his glory. He is powerful, very powerful. There are entire armies at his command. He has taken your friend as his own…_**

"Cinema Snob?" Film Brain said, alarmed. "What's wrong? What happened to him?"

**_I will not tell you, _**Ma-Ti replied darkly. **_But I will show you…_**

Suddenly, Ma-Ti turned bright red. A streak of lightning shot out from his eyes and hit Film Brain dead in his graphical stomach. The bolts enveloped him entirely, showing him strange visions from across time and space, things Spoony couldn't possibly have known for himself. He saw a dark, floppy-faced man on a black throne. He was speaking to The Snob, who was at his side and framed in shadow, speaking of war.

**_"This station is the ultimate power in the universe," _**he said. **_"Nothing can match its destructive power. Once it is used, the people of Earth will fall into line readily. They will quake in fear before the awesome power of the Death Bomb."_**

There was a sudden flash. Film Brain saw a terrible shape. It was a sphere the size of a small moon, dark grey and covered in thousands of weapons embankments. In its middle was a giant depression ringed with green glowing lights. On its north axis was a long wiry frame, its command and firing control center. The whole thing together looked like a giant bomb. Around it floated a fleet of ten thousand gigantic spaceships, all of them just as heavily armed. It was an army bigger than any he had ever seen. And it was terrifying.

**_"Of course, it still needs to be repainted, the drywall reapplied, and the rugs are getting rather dated… but aside from that it looks pretty damn impressive. The Earth will be subsumed. Its people will be chained to the might of our agents, its wealth drained for our purposes, and from the ashes of its defeat, we shall rise. We shall become the supreme overlords of the galaxy, and change its worlds to the shapes we see fit. We shall rule."_**

"Oh my God! He's going to—no! No!" Film Brain cried. "CR! Critic! Send me back to the Antechamber! Get me out of here! Hello? Guys? Help! There's something wrong with the machine! Get me out of here! Guys! _GUYS!_"

**_They cannot hear you, _**Ma-Ti said, his voice drowning Film Brain's increasingly inarticulate pleas for help. His red visage ballooned to fill the entire space within the infinite room. **_They are ensnared in another web of the Plot. Seek peace, Mathew Buck Film Brain, seek peace. The plot will flow. The plot must flow..._**

Film Brain screamed. No one heard him. No one heard him at all.

* * *

No one heard him because almost everyone on board the _Exit Strategy_ that breathed was unconscious. Alarms had sounded when the oxygen content in the air had dipped below ten percent. Eight Bit Mickey and Paw had struggled to get the pump working again, but it was too late. The bridge was littered with the crew's bodies, all of them having dropped there unceremoniously when they could no longer keep themselves conscious. Three figures stood over them. They had no need to breathe. They were not human.

**[****Time is short. Leave none of them alive,****] **Mechakara said. RoboTodd and Seven-of-Eleven acquiesced to their master's orders, sliding knives out from inside their hidden sheaths. As they went to work, Mechakara turned to the bridge's master controls. Silently, he punched in the number that would activate the ship's self-destruct sequence. He was about to end this miserable farce in the most spectacular manner possible…

* * *

"There! I knew it!" Lupa pointed to a series of entries in the communications log. "Irrefutable proof that Linkara and The Chick are taking orders from Zod and Terl!"

"This is heavy," JewWario said, chin in hand. "What do we do now?"

"We go to The Critic with this and have him put them in the brig."

"We don't have a brig, do we?"

"Sure we do, it's that empty room on the second—" Lupa's explanation was cut short when a tinny alarm sounded on CR's console. JewWario went to it and brought up the message screen that had appeared with it. His eyes widened as he read the alert. "Oxygen levels are dropping on the bridge," he said. "That's weird. The pump's been shut off manually…"

"The crew's on the bridge! They're making their move!" Lupa cried.

"What're we going to do?" JewWario asked.

"You have control over the pump from here right?" Lupa replied.

"Yes, but how's that going to stop—?"

"Reactivate it, then grab whatever weapon you can find and follow me. I feel a Cynthia Rothrock moment coming on…" Lupa left JewWario standing there confusedly as she made for the back room where they'd stored JO's crazy weapons.

* * *

He was halfway finished. Only the pathetic CR's encryption code stood between him and the self-destruct sequence for the ship. Just ten thousand more characters and it would be over. He continued his code breaking as Seven-of-Eleven started her slaughter of the ship's crew. She approached the unconscious JesuOtaku first, her perkiness finally diffused by a combination of painkiller overdose and lack of oxygen. RoboTodd followed close behind her. They both drew their weapons; Seven-of-Eleven her drill bits and RoboTodd his Glock 19.

_{__I will exterminate carbon unit JesuOtaku,__} _Seven-of-Eleven said._ {You will exterminate carbon unit Paw.}_

_[__I DESIRE TO EXTERMINATE CARBON UNIT JESUOTAKU,__]_ RoboTodd replied.

_{__I requested priority from the master control unit to exterminate carbon unit JesuOtaku.__}_

_[__YOU DID NOT REQUEST PRIORITY.__]_

_{__I did.__}_

_[__YOU DID NOT.__]_

_{__I did.__}_

_[__YOU DID NOT.__]_

* * *

As Lupa got ready elsewhere, JewWario frantically searched through engineering for a weapon that could take on a crazed comic book fan and his crazy in love compatriot. "Think, Justin, think!" he said as he frantically overturned boxes of mushroom caps and caulk. "What would George Takei do, besides be ridiculously awesome every waking moment?"

Suddenly, inspiration struck. He remembered a line from Chapter 7 of the _Tao Ta Kei_: Nude Expression on Your Ship. It was one of his favorites, so simple and yet so elegant with its highly honed, koan-like message: _"If not naked now, what naked time?"_

"Of course," JewWario said suavely, snapping his fingers. He grabbed a nearby metal dowel and ripped open his shirt. Things were about to get totally Takei.

* * *

On the bridge, JesuOtaku woke up. She yawned, rubbed sleep from her eyes, and groggily assessed the situation. There was a dangerous looking woman in a silver suit standing over her. She had a whirring drill bit in one hand—no, growing_ out_ of one hand. Behind her was a larger man, also in a larger, much blockier silver suit. She wobbled a bit as she sat up, still a bit drunk from her tranquilized slumber.

_"Edward is in deeeep shit," _she said before flopping back down onto the floor. Seven-of-Eleven stooped to put the drill bit in her left ear when there was a loud crash.

Then another loud crash.

Then another.

The two cyborgs turned to face the door to engineering. Obscuras Lupa strode into the room, wearing the power-enhancing set of boots JesuOtaku had made, along with her power-enhancing gloves. The boots made a loud crashing sound with each step. Lupa stopped, brought up her hands and balled them into fists, and turned to Seven-of-Eleven. "Get away from her, you _bitch_!" she said emphatically.

Seven-of-Eleven stood up. Behind her electrodes and reconfigured positronic brain, she felt a vague tinge of jealousy mixed with rage. She did not like this carbon unit Alison Pregler, Obscuras Lupa. She wanted to destroy her. But she couldn't. She needed the order. She turned to the master control unit. _{__Master control unit, request permission to destroy carbon unit Obscuras Lupa,__} _she said icily, or lifelessly. It was hard to tell which.

**[****Permission granted. Make it quick,****] **he replied.

_{__Die, slut.__} _Seven-of-Eleven leapt at Lupa. Lupa's auto-defending gloves blocked her drill bit. She responded with a double palm-strike, sending her flying back into the wood paneling on the other side of the room. Lupa put up her dukes and went charging after her, delivering a rapid-fire one-two punch into her torso. RoboTodd, having not yet received an order from the master control unit to act, stood placidly observing the unsexy, but still high-stakes girl fight in front of him.

At the console, Mechakara was struck in the shoulder with a blunt metal object. The blow barely registered as it bounded off the metallic coating beneath his disguise. Mechakara turned to see a shirtless, hairy-chested JewWario holding the metal dowel. He had attached a butter dish to it to serve as a hand guard.

"_En garde_, yon metal man!" JewWario cried, bringing the sword up dramatically. "You shall either leave here bloodied, or with my blood on your sword!" Without ado, he delivered a scathing series of thrusts to Mechakara's torso, head, and neck area, none of which were able to draw blood or any other fluid. Mechakara ignored him and turned back to his work. He had only five thousand characters to go.

_{__Master control unit,__} _Seven-of-Eleven said, grappling with Lupa's iron fingers clamped around her neck._ {__Permission to request unit three destroy—__}_

**[****Unit three, destroy Obscuras Lupa.****]**

_[__ACKNOWLEDGED.__]_ RoboTodd raised his Glock and took aim at Lupa. Lupa threw Seven-of-Eleven out of her way as he began to fire, the gloves deflecting his poorly aimed shots. "Todd, I know you're still in there!" she said as he kept firing. "I know you can fight your programming if you try! Fight it, Todd! Fight it for me!"

RoboTodd kept firing.

"Okay, this is why I'm not dating you right now! You can't follow simple directions!"

_[__THIS UNIT IS CURRENTLY FOLLOWING DIRECTIONS. THIS UNIT HAS BEEN ORDERED TO DESTROY YOU,__]_ RoboTodd replied. JewWario continued his fruitless assault on Mechakara's shoulders, delivering blow after blow after blow. He stopped his assault when Mechakara punched him in the stomach, causing him to double over in pain.

"Are you even aiming for me at all?" Lupa asked as her gloves expertly deflected the bullets streaming from the one place RoboTodd was attempting to fire from. "Seriously, you're just hitting the same spot over and over!"

_[__THIS UNIT WAS NOT INSTALLED WITH TARGETING SOFTWARE_,] RoboTodd replied, still firing. Lupa deflected one of the bullets at his gun. The ricocheted shot caused him to drop it and stumble unceremoniously to the floor. Just then, Seven-of-Eleven jumped up and put her adversary into a choke hold, that is, until Lupa peeled her arm away and began punching her in the face, doling out payback for all the passive-aggressive bullshit she'd had to put up with during the past week: _"Bitch! Slut! Pig! Whore! Padded! Asshole!"_ she said, punctuating each punch with a different insult.

"Foul villain," JewWario wheezed at Mechakara from the other side of the room. "Thou hast probably punctured my spleen…"

_"JewWario…" _JesuOtaku had woken up again. She held in one hand a very large grenade. _"Use… thermo-detonator…"_

She hucked it to him, along with its remote control device, and fell asleep again. Reinvigorated, JewWario leapt back up. "Alright, Nerdinator!" he cried, winding back for a softball pitch. "EAT THIS!"

He threw the thermo-detonator at Mechakara. Mechakara turned toward it, unhinging his jaw to allow the device into his throat cavity. He swallowed unceremoniously.

"Huh. I didn't know you could do that," JewWario said.

"Turn it off, you idiot!" Lupa shouted as she forced Seven-of-Eleven's arm to bend in an improper direction. "You'll blow the ship to Kingdom Come!"

JewWario fumbled with the remote as Mechakara, deciding that he'd had enough human antics for one lifetime, stepped up to him briskly. He put one black gloved hand around the Semite's throat and lifted him bodily into the air. JewWario squeaked, trying feebly to remove the tightening metallic fingers, but he couldn't. Seven-of-Eleven, mimicking her boss's movements, put Lupa in a new, far more restraining chokehold. Unable to breathe, she looked at RoboTodd, who was standing against the wall now that his primary weapon had been disabled.

"Todd! Help me!" she said.

_[__THIS UNIT DOES NOT TAKE ORDERS FROM PUSHY ORGANIC WOMEN,__] _RoboTodd replied.

"You need to fight back!" Lupa struggled against Seven-of-Eleven's grip. "I know you're still in there! You can break free if you just try and fight it!"

_[__THIS UNIT CANNOT FIGHT IT. THIS UNIT CANNOT PROLONG THE INEVITABLE. THIS UNIT IS DESTINED TO SERVE THE MASTER CONTROL UNIT FOREVER. THIS UNIT IS—__]_

"Todd, listen to me! If you fight back, I'll go out on a date with you, okay?"

RoboTodd went silent. Lupa waited with baited lack of breath as he made up his metallic mind. Finally, it was not he, but Todd who spoke:

"Really?" he said.

"Yes! I'll do it if you help me!"

"Alright, it's time for this love triangle to end…"

Todd strode forward, hands moving up to his helmet. On the other side of the room, Mechakara took off his fake glasses. His red eyes were charging up their laser functionality. **[****I've had enough of you,****] **he said. JewWario only gurgled in response.

"Hey, Seven-of-Eleven," Todd said, putting two hands on his helmet's unlock buttons. "Gaze into the face of Todd…"

Todd removed his helmet's visor. Seven-of-Eleven looked at the visage behind it. She screamed. She screamed so loudly the entirety of the ship's crew woke up at once, that the pacification chip Mechakara had put into her head fractured from the reverberations inside her skull. She screamed until her throat was hoarse, until she could no longer bear to look at the immense refraction of her vanity, self-satisfaction, and priggishness that stood in front of her. Lupa didn't scream. She stared at Todd's face too, but she saw something far different than The Chick did. She saw a good man with comparably good looks. Nothing spectacular, but he wasn't exactly Quasimodo either. He was… okay.

**[****What are you doing, unit two?****] **Mechakara asked angrily. He turned to face the scene, also catching a glimpse of RoboTodd's face. In that face, he saw everything he was, everything he had done, everything he'd ever been for as long as he'd functioned. He also screamed, but not from agony. He screamed in surprise and rage as his face was consumed in flames. His lensed eyes were permanently scarred from a sudden blast of heat as his processor overloaded. The flesh on his cheeks and forehead melted and ran down his face. He put his gloved hands to his face, ruining them too as the leather caught fire and burned. He fell to the floor, his systems crashing and rebooting all at once. JewWario, released from his grip, backed away as his body twitched and smoked.

Seven-of-Eleven, now The Nostalgia Chick once again, let go of Lupa. She fell to the floor in an unmoving heap, retching and sobbing at the same time. Todd, his job done, lowered his helmet's visor back into place. "Told her she wouldn't like my face," he said.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Todd's moment here comes from something Lindsay said on Twitter about his face being a reflection of your soul. Just so you know.

Also, too many underlined bits of dialogue to correct. Toooo many...

-Xoanon


	41. Part 6, Chapter 40

**Chapter 40: The Robot Downsizing**

_A good friend of mine_

_Follows the stars…_

* * *

CR, The Critic and Sad Panda rushed onto the bridge. Everyone else was already beginning to awaken, most of them still inebriated from the painkillers. They got to their feet slowly, steadily, woozily, grasping the sides of the consoles for support. Lupa and Todd were still in the center of the room dealing with their own aftermath concerning what had just happened. Lupa was amazed at what she'd just seen, not at Todd's face, but at the amazing and unnervingly powerful thing he'd done to save her.

"Wow, Todd," she said. "You actually showed your face. I'm… grateful. Thank you."

"S'okay," Todd replied. "I knew it was the only thing I had that could snap The Chick out of it." He tapped the gurgling, poly-suited heap on the floor with his metallic boot. "Look, about the date. If you don't want you don't have to… you don't have to go on—"

"You saved my life," Lupa interrupted. "I think that's worth at least one date."

"Oh. Okay… Cool." Todd smiled. Lupa smiled back at him. The Critic interrupted this tender moment by awkwardly stumbling into the floor space between the two. "What the crap's going on here?" he asked, yawning profusely.

"Oh, nothing much," Lupa replied proudly, taking off the enhancing boots. "You guys just nearly died from lack of oxygen due to an attempt on our lives, that's all. Nothing special."

"What? How'd that happen?"

"Our traitors here were messing with the oxygen pump." Lupa gestured to the prone Chick and Mechakara. "Luckily, you clowns got hepped up on painkillers before they put their plan into action. The drugs acted as a sedative, slowing down your metabolic processes long enough for JewWario and me to reset the oxygen pump and keep you guys from asphyxiating."

"So by abusing prescription drugs, I helped save everyone's lives?" Sad Panda asked.

"Precisely."

"Wait a minute," Paw said. "Did anybody give a dose to Phelous?"

The crew stood silently for a moment.

"Who cares?" CR replied. The rest of the crew shrugged. They'd find his body eventually, and if not, he'd be back again before too long. Unfortunately.

"Oh man…" Joe said, clutching the side of his head. "I think I'm still high from those painkillers. Does anybody else see a half-naked JewWario there in the corner?" He pointed at the totally real half-naked JewWario in the corner, who waved back nervously and sidled off to find another shirt.

"Alright, so who's responsible for this?" The Critic asked.

Lupa pointed to Mechakara. "There's the culprit. He's been in contact with Terl the entire time he's been on the ship. He's the traitor."

"Well well well…" The Critic said, walking over to the unconscious robotic dupe. "I had a feeling Linkara was behind all of this. I knew we couldn't trust a guy who reviewed lamps. What a weirdo."

"That's not Linkara, Critic," Lupa corrected. "It's Mechakara."

"Oh yeah!" Paw said. "I know about him. He's Linkara's psychotic robotic doppelganger. He hates all humans and kills wantonly and without mercy. Oh... That's probably not good for Linkara."

"Of course! I knew it was Mechakara the whole time!" The Critic lied. "I figured something had to be up when I heard Linkara's frantic phone call back on Earth!"

"Then why'd you let him onto the ship in the first place?" CR asked.

"Keep your friends close, and your robot friends closer, CR," The Critic replied as he knelt to inspect the robot corpse. "Oh, how the mighty murderous malevolent Mechakara has fallen. You're not so scary now, are you, you bucket of bolts? Huh? What're you gonna do to me now? Are you gonna try and grab my neck and choke me to death? I doubt that, because you're not even conscious right now you stupid hunk of—"

Suddenly, Mechakara's arm shot out and grabbed The Critic by the throat. The crew screamed. The Critic screamed even louder, in spite of his constricted windpipe. Mechakara slowly got to his feet, holding The Critic in his grip the entire time. He looked more murderous now than he'd ever looked before as Linkara. Half his face was missing. The melted flesh had congealed around a stainless steel skull plate which shined underneath the florescent lights of the bridge. One of his false eyes had popped, revealing a shining red orb that twisted and writhed in its socket. A few of his teeth were missing. The torn leather gloves on his hands revealed metal pincers underneath. They flicked and whirred as he moved his hand to his charred coat pocket and withdrew a phaser the size of an industrial-grade stapler, which he pointed at the _Exit Strategy_'s crew. The Critic screamed again. Mechakara tightened his grip, turning the scream into a rattle.

**[****You s-stupid, d-d-disgusting m-meatbags!****] **he snarled. The damaged he'd sustained had affected his vocal circuits, giving him an unpredictable stutter. No one in the room thought it was funny at all. **[****You think this moronic disgui-ise meant anything to me? You th-think you've beaten me-e? You're wrong! ****_I've _****b-beaten you! I've wo-on! And once I've fiiiiinished blowing this ship to bits, I've got a little pri-i-ize waiting for me, courtesy of your enemy, G-general Terl!****]**

"What prize?" The Critic asked. Mechakara ignored him, throwing him roughly into the ground and putting a leg to his chest. Keeping the phaser on the crew, he took the communicator from his pocket. It was still active. Excellent. **[****Terl, come in. Have you been li-istening?****]**

_"Indeed I have," _Terl replied. _"Is phase three nearly complete? It sounded pretty dicey there for a moment…"_

**[****Phase three is ir-relevant! I have The Critic ca-aptured! Do away with subterfuge and give the or-or-order!****]**

_"What happened to your voice? You sound like a club beat."_

**[****Do it!****]**

_"Very well! Complete your assignment and kill The Nostalgia Critic!"_

**[****Finally…****]** Mechakara pointed the business end of his phaser at The Critic. The Critic struggled to wiggle out from under the pylon that was slowly crushing him, but couldn't. At least twenty kilograms worth of pressure were pinning him to the floor and preventing his escape.

"Wait! Don't kill me!" he begged. "I can make it worth your while! What do you want? Money? Guns? Robot hookers? You name it, it's yours!"

**[****All I require is yo-ur extermination,****] **Mechakara said, grinning and showing his horribly cracked smile. **[****That is the only thing keeping me from my prize. General Terl has pro-omised me a hefty rewar-ard for your death, and now that I have done awa-ay with his idiotic subterfuge, I intend to at laaast collect the bounty…****]**

"Todd, what does Mechakara want?" Lupa asked.

**[****Unit three, activate protection subroutines, code alpha dash se-even G,****] **Mechakara ordered. Todd, having reverted to human consciousness, ignored the stream of numbers and letters he'd been assaulted with and told everyone what he knew. "He's looking for the secret to Malachite's Hand. I overheard him and The Chick talking about it."

"Wait, Malachite's Hand?" The Critic said, ignoring the pain in his chest. "You're looking for that gauntlet?"

**[****The gauntlet is in my posses-esion. I merely seek to unlock its power.****]**

"You've got to be kidding me…"

**[****What?****]**

"The thing's useless, you idiot!" The Critic shouted, ignoring the pain in his chest. "It's just a battery designed to store fairy dust or some shit! We don't even know if it has any powers!"

Mechakara looked surprised for a moment, but only a moment. **[****Lies, filthy organic lies!****]** he snarled. **[****You ca-an't stop me from completing my miiiission!****]**

"It's true! The guy who created it in the first place is the only person who ever made it work and he blew himself up! Go ahead, ask your dipshit boss! I'll wait!"

Infuriated, Mechakara brought the communicator to his half-destroyed ear. **[****Terl, come in, Terl—****]**

Terl didn't answer, at least not intentionally. For a moment the line was dead, with nothing to be heard other than a rush of static. Mechakara slapped the communicator once, twice, until a half-garbled transmission blared out through the tiny speaker. Terl was talking to someone else. As he spoke, Mechakara's grip tightened on both the communicator and the phaser, until his half-stripped fingers cracked their molding and began to disrupt the electronics inside, and his malformed face twisted into a portrait of rage. He took his foot from The Critic's chest, allowing him to hastily escape into his crowd of cohorts. Everyone on the bridge listened as Terl had his alternate conversation:

_"…I know, right? They're so easy to dupe! That metal moron actually thinks I'm going to give him the secret to that Power Glove he carries around with him! Shows how much he really knows. I tricked a 'superior' robot into doing my bidding, and I didn't even have to leave my ship to do it… Fuck if I know. The thing's probably totally useless… Some idiot called Malachite; blew himself up… I'm not sure. He's probably one of the older models. Only a ZX-15 would fall for a plan with logic this faulty. Hey, is this thing still on?"_

There was a brief pause.

_"Oh shit… ohhhhhhh shit! Fuck! Shit! Turn it off! Turn it off, damn you—" _Another pause, then: _"Um… hey, Mechakara! How're things onboard the _Exit Strategy _going…? Di-did you kill The Critic yet? Are his brains splattered all over the bridge? Um… in case you're wondering about that last transmission… ah… that was my twin brother. Yeah. He's a compulsive liar, gets on the wavelengths and… lies about stuff. Sorry about that. Continue with the operation! I promise you he was totally kidding! Uh, Mechakara? Buddy? Hello?"_

Terl didn't get a reply. The communicator broke in two and fell to the floor of the bridge, buzzing and leaking smoke from its shattered computer components. A few seconds later, the phaser joined it in about the same condition. Mechakara stood over them for a long while, body hunched over, teeth gritted, his remaining human eye about to bulge out of his skull. He looked like someone had just punched him in the gut. In his head, a single thought process was running over and over and over, using up all of his surviving processor space, confirming the unpleasantness that had just occurred: Terl lied to him about the gauntlet. Terl lied to him. Terl lied.

Terl was going to pay.

Mechakara screamed. This wasn't a scream of surprise or pain. It was a scream of rage that sounded like five jet engines squeezed into a wav. file. It was so loud that it shook the entire foundation of the ship and almost shattered the eardrums of every human in attendance without steel-reinforced eardrums. He kept screaming, sustaining the note for a good minute or so, until finally he snapped out of it and turned toward the _Exit Strategy_'s crew. The rage volcano that had built up for so long was finally erupting. He was out for blood, and the only thing in range that could oblige was The Critic and his crew.

**[****No meatbag out-outsmarts me!****] **he shouted, advancing on them. The Critic would have been the first to suffer his wrath, if not for The Nostalgia Chick's sudden recovery. In a flash she hefted one of JesuOtaku's discarded boots into the side of his head, sending him reeling into the wall. There was a lot of clear fluid leaking from her eyes as he fell to the floor. "That's for the drill, you bastard!"

**[****Unit two, com-mence emer-ergency shutdown, code one-one z-zero,****] **Mechakara said.

"I think she's done taking orders from you," Lupa replied curtly. The rest of the crew, bolstered by her cocky attitude, began to encircle Mechakara. He tried to escape to another part of the ship, almost making it to the stairs before Todd blocked them with his bulk.

"Your move, creep," he said. "Man, I've been waiting to say that."

Outnumbered and damaged, Mechakara weighed his options. He could stay and fight, and risk being deactivated at the hands of the fleshy pseudo-beings who had somehow turned the tables on him. That was not a desirable outcome. He had other things to attend to. A new plan was forming in his head. He was going to pay his former boss a little visit, and it would be a very violent one indeed.

Putting a hand to his wrist, he activated the secret code he'd implanted in the teleporter earlier. **[****Emergency evaaacuation code one-one seven B.****] **He disappeared in a flash of blue light just as the crew leaped for him. He was gone.

"Where'd he go?" Joe wondered. A few seconds later, something launched from the back of the ship. Eight Bit Mickey activated the rear cameras. On the viewscreen, a small, garbage-can shaped craft was flying away at top speed.

"He's taking the escape pod!" Marzgurl cried.

"Aw man, we worked for hours on that," Sage said.

"Should I chart a course to pursue, captain?" the re-shirted JewWario asked.

"Ah, let him go," The Critic replied. "He's not after us anymore. Besides, we've got bigger things on the brain. Brain…"

The Critic stood there for a few minutes until his memory kicked in.

"Oh good God!" He hightailed it for medbay. The others followed.

* * *

They found Film Brain completely catatonic, eyes rolled back into his head, lips open in a silent shout of "holy crap holy crap get me out of here oh sweet buttery Jehovah this is terrifying". The Critic peeled him out of the helmet before CR had a chance to shut Morpheus down entirely. It seemed to have no ill effect, as Film Brain was immediately brought out of his waking nightmare. He sat up slowly. Thankfully, his rebreather had supplied him with enough oxygen during the crisis on the bridge. The Critic started slapping him in the face, hoping desperately that he hadn't caused another crewmember to die a horrific death due to his incompetence. "Film Brain, speak to me," he said. "Are you alright? What happened in there?"

"Ma-Ti… told me…" Film Brain replied, out of breath. "He's… got a huge… thing… he's going to ki… kill… Giant armies… Empire spanning the stars… Huge laser… I know…"

"What? What do you know?"

Film Brain took a deep breath and looked at The Critic. His eyes were wide and empty-looking. "Everything," he said calmly. "I know everything."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Still too many underlined bits.

Malachite's Hand was a point of contention in this chapter. I'm still not sure if it was like a magical battery or if the user needs magic to operate it. Either way, it probably wouldn't have worked no matter what Mechakara tried. I'm starting to wonder if he's still in our universe because his superiors needed someplace to dump him. How long has it been since he's reported back to them, anyway?

-Xoanon


	42. Part 6, Chapter 41

**Chapter 41: Ma-Ti's Tale of Turbulent Tidings**

_I've seen the future, brother; it is murder._

—Leonard Cohen

* * *

After a short recuperation in the ship's den, Film Brain told the crew the news he'd received from Ma-Ti. Most of it concerned a creepy old guy in a black robe and his gigantic space station the size of a planet that was slowly heading for Earth, and the just as gigantic army that was travelling along with it, its purpose abundantly clear. The warm, fuzzy feeling the painkillers had provided slowly faded as the seriousness of Film Brain's words sunk in. This was bad for them, very bad. The guy behind Terl, behind SUCKA, behind everything that had plagued them up to this point, was coming, and a whole lot of other dangerous shit was coming with him, an entire empire's worth of jackboot about to stomp their faces in.

"…And that's the whole story," Film Brain finished. "The Executor's heading for the Hole right now so he can secure it. After that, he's going to invade Earth and probably kill and enslave a whole bunch of people. Things got a little fuzzy by that point. I don't know what'll happen afterwards."

"About the Hole; you say it's getting more and more unstable?" Marzgurl said.

"That's what Ma-Ti told me," Film Brain replied. "He said The Critic is the only thing that can keep it from spiraling out of control. I tried to get him to say why."

"What did he tell you?" The Critic asked.

"'The plot must flow.'"

"Figures."

"I don't get it," Paw said. "Why would this Executor guy invade Earth and try to enslave everybody? Where's the logic in trying to conquer one planet among billions?"

"Ma-Ti said it had something to do with the internet, and our freedom. Judging by the size of the Death Bomb, I'm guessing he's got a pretty good lock on the rest of the universe. Earth must be the one planet he hasn't gotten his fingers on yet."

"And the Hole? What's he trying to do with the Hole?" JewWario asked.

"The Executor thinks he can control the Hole," Film Brain said. "You saw what it did to Europa. It made an entire biosphere out of nothing. It created _life _out of nothing. With power like that, he can do anything he wants. And as long as it creates new worlds, new life, new audiences for him to control… he doesn't _care_ what happens to Earth, or anybody else under his rule."

"This is heavy," Joe said. "A cosmic entity that can create life under the thumb of a douchebag, new worlds without critics to guide them, an entire galaxy kept in perpetual slavery."

"This might be our biggest discovery ever," Paw agreed solemnly.

"Alright, so what're we going to do about the Hole?" The Critic said.

"One thing's for sure, none of us can go inside it," Mickey replied. "In fact, we shouldn't do anything with it until we're sure about what side of Ma-Ti we're dealing with. That goes double for you."

"What if Ma-Ti's telling the truth?" The Critic said.

"What if he isn't?" Mickey retorted. "I don't know about the rest of you guys, but there's something about Ma-Ti being an all-powerful storytelling god that gives me the creeps. I mean, we used to be pretty shitty to him. What if he's… y'know, resentful?"

The Critic knew Mickey was right. "Point taken."

"What about Cinema Snob?" Luke asked, stepping up to Film Brain. "Isn't he with The Executor on the Death Ball? What happened to him? And please don't say they're making him watch _Manos_. That's a fate worse than death."

"I, ah…"

"What? What is it?"

"I'm sorry, Luke," Film Brain said. "I've seen what Snob has become. He's become one of them."

"What?"

"He's crossed over to the dark side. The Executor promised him… it's kind of hard to explain, but he's been tricked. He thinks The Executor can give him fame that'll last forever."

"No… that's not true…" Luke said. "That's impossible..."

"Luke, I'm so sorry—"

Luke said nothing in return, and for a moment the crew of the _Exit Strategy _stood in silence. Everything Film Brain had said was still crashing down on them like a tsunami made out of bricks. They were lost in space, on a crippled spaceship, about to face down the greatest dictator in extra-Earth history, and their ex-friend was helping him. Any sane group of astronauts would have cracked under the pressure and ran to the farthest set of coordinates in the universe as fast as their warp drive could take them, but they had no such recourse. They had to stand and fight. But they didn't know how.

"So what do we do?" Lupa asked, breaking the silence.

"We find the station," a hearty voice replied, "and _blow it up."_

The group turned to see Phelous standing atop the staircase leading to the second floor. He was dressed in The Critic's Judge Dredd uniform, which was a couple sizes too big for him and made him look like a midget with a Napoleon complex dressed in a suit of armor. There was a look of balls-out lunacy spread all over his face as he waddled down the stairs to take his place among the group.

"Phelous?" The Critic said. "Aren't you supposed to be dead, or severely brain-damaged from lack of oxygen?"

"That's His Grand Hyper-Admiralness Order of Canada Phelous!" Phelous corrected swiftly. "And need I remind you, Critic, that _I'm _the one running this show?"

"Not really, considering you keep reminding us every ten minutes…" CR replied.

"Alright, gang, here's the plan:" Phelous announced, butting into the center of the group and shoving CR aside. "We work nonstop for the next five or ten minutes to get this ship back up to fighting strength. Then, we head back to the Hole and catch The Executor by surprise. He'll never see it coming; a ragtag, barely trained fighting force like this against an army of at least a million troops. It's a maneuver so brilliant he'll have no defense for it!"

"Or he'll just have his cruisers train all their guns on us at once!" Film Brain said, standing up and walking over to Phelous. "With your tactical skills, I'd be surprised if we don't get our asses handed to us on a silver platter in the first fifteen seconds of battle!"

"That's a damn dirty cliché!"

"Blow me, colony slug!"

"Both you egomaniacs knock it off!" The Critic said, separating the two before they could come to blows. "You're both right. We need to get the ship up and running and throw everything we have at this guy before he can use the Hole to cement his control over the galaxy, like Phelous said—"

"That's High-Voltage General King Phelous!" Phelous cried.

"—and we need to have a better plan of attack for beating him at Europa, like Film Brain said. We've gotta work together here, people!"

The group nodded, remembering that Phelous had had good ideas in the past before going absolutely crazy with power, and that Film Brain was no longer a useless super-weirdo. But they were still scared, and even though they had every right to be, it wouldn't do to go up against Goliath when you couldn't aim your sling.

"Uh… guys?" Paw, sensing that his moment in the sun had come, stepped up to the front of the group to deliver one last speech to seal the deal. "Look, I know everyone here is scared," he began. "Believe me, I am too. All I wanted to do on this trip was make a whole bunch of amazing scientific discoveries and get insanely rich off them. But this is about more than just money now. This is about the fate of an entire galaxy of people. Lives are at stake; our families need us, our world needs us, and if I've learned anything from sci-fi, it's that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. It doesn't matter what happens to us anymore. If we can stop The Executor from getting to the Hole and destroying Earth, then it'll all have been worthwhile. So who's with me?"

JesuOtaku applauded wildly, but other than that no one said anything. Even with so much at stake, they still weren't sure that defending the entire galaxy from harm was worth their lives. The selfish spirit that had begun the mission was still embedded in them like an ingrown nail, and it would take even more rousting and a whole lot of apple vinegar to coax it out. At that moment, CR stepped up to the plate alongside Paw with the grand slam hitting pitch.

"Freedom is the right of all sentient beings," he said. "Paw's right about us. We've been too selfish for too long. I got into this mission to uncover the truth, to unravel the mystery behind the signal that Paw discovered. I can't just back away now that I've found out its something incredibly terrifying that can destroy me with a single wave of its energy signature. That's not what scientists do, and that's not what a member of the Space Research Committee would do. I'm not afraid of this Executor. He's been gunning for us since the beginning—he killed That Sci-Fi Guy with his death laser…"

Joe and JesuOtaku nodded in approval.

"…he backed SUCKA in Congress…"

That got a huge grumbling assent from the rest of the group.

"…and he had Terl put The Critic under house arrest."

"Damn skippy," The Critic said.

"So to tell you all the truth, I'm not afraid of this asshole. He's done a whole bunch of horrible stuff to us already. Why should we be any more afraid of him now? If we don't stop him here, things are just going to get worse and worse until we can't take it anymore. We have to draw the line! We have to stand up and say 'screw you, good sir; I disagree with the way you run things'! We have to declare, once and for all, that this is our planet, this is our Solar System, and we're never giving it up! Not to The Executor, not to anybody!"

The group cheered. Marzgurl and Lupa high-fived, Todd, still in his chrome armor, did the robot, Film Brain rubbed his watering eyes and Phelous applauded weakly before crossing his arms and grumbling. The Critic turned to Paw and CR, to do something he had never done before: give an earnest compliment to two people who had done something good. "Nice speeches," he said, smiling.

"Happy to help," Paw replied.

"Also happy to help," CR added.

"Alright, everyone," The Critic stepped to the front of the group. "Considering the amount of stuff we have to do, I think its best we start working on the ship now. Phelous—"

"Incredibly-Powerful Sardukar Comptroller Phelous," Phelous said.

"Whatever. Take CR and Joe and get to work on the engines. We need to be at full power when we reach Europa." Phelous, due to some synapse in his brain which still allowed him to take orders from The Critic, agreed and left with his lackeys in tow. "Everybody else, fan out and repair the damage from Mechakara's bombs. If you find anything screwy that he left behind, report it to Paw. It's go time, people! Let's move!"

The crew dispersed without complaint. Somehow, things felt right again with The Critic in charge, or at least semi-in charge. The Critic, however, wasn't so assured. Even despite Paw and CR's rousting, the crew's rejuvenated spirit and sense of optimism, and the ridding of the robo-asswipe that had plagued them for so long, there was still something wrong with him, a sense of dread gnawing at the back of his brain, a vortex that consumed his thoughts and his dreams. The Hole had him, and he knew it. He couldn't escape. His ticket to destiny had been paid for and was smoldering in his pocket. His fate was sealed.

He didn't have much time.

* * *

On a dark throne, in a dark throne room that used to be a penthouse office suite, The Executor sat. The giant window behind him looked out onto space, Jupiter slowly inching toward him in the background. Europa was orbiting on its far size, as was his prize, the Hole. He could sense it from here, its power, its will to create. His powers of prediction were tingling, filling him with a sense of ecstasy. He was close to victory. The galaxy would soon be his forever. He turned to his empty throne room to summon his newest apprentice.

"_**Darth Snob," **_he said, "_**rise." **_

Darth Snob rose. He was now dressed in a black business suit, even blacker than the suit jacket he'd been wearing earlier. A crested helmet embossed with the face of death itself enclosed his head. Two eyeglass shaped lenses stared endlessly out of it. He approached his master's dark high chair and knelt before it. He raised his head.

"_**Lord Snob, can you hear me?" **_The Executor asked.

"_Barely,"_ Darth Snob replied. The helmet did nothing to his voice other than muffle its natural cadence, making it sound as if he had a permanent head cold. "_I don't really understand why I have to wear this thing. It's clumsy, inconvenient, and I can't breathe in it."_

"_**Oh, I'm afraid in your despair, you have forgotten," **_The Executor said. "_**The mask is to hide your hideously deformed face and protect your body from further harm." **_

"_I still don't get that. I'm not exactly deformed."_

"_**You were burned, horribly, in an accident."**_

"_That? You threw coffee in my face!" _

"_**I already told you, I was trying to get rid of that mosquito…"**_

"_Which I didn't even see!"_

"_**But I did. The coffee blinded you while I killed it."**_

"_And I couldn't find it afterward_s…"

"…_**Because he drowned in the coffee."**_

"_Honestly, I'm starting to think you just wanted someone uglier around than you!"_

"_**All is set for destruction. With my coffee-soaked, hamburger-faced apprentice by my side, nothing can stop us now… Hmhmhmhmhmhahahahaha… Hahahahahahahahahaha…"**_

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO !" _

"_**What was that?" **_

"_I thought it would add dramatic effect."_

"_**It was actually kind of lame." **_

"_Sorry."_

"_**It's cool. We'll edit it out and add it to the Special Edition."**_

"_How can you have a special edition of a novelization?"_

"_**Well come on, the guy writing it can alter scenes like a mofo. He'll fit it in somewhere. Trust me. Now where was I? Ah yes, maniacal laughter. Here goes… HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA… AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"**_

"_Hey, what should I do?"_

"_**Oh… uh, just… do the opposite of what you did there, okay?"**_

"_Okay."_

"_**Good. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA !"**_

"_YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES !"_

The two laughed, and had a positive impulse to the given scenario, for a long time.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** At the end of this week, I'm going on spring break. This means that I'll be able to probably finish the entire story if I can get enough of my homework done during the first half. We're on the home stretch.

-Xoanon


	43. Part 7, Chapter 42

**Part 7: The Calm before the Cosmic Ray Storm**

**Chapter 42: A Ghost of Perchance**

_Despair is the conclusion of fools._

—Benjamin Disraeli

* * *

Luke was alone in The Critic's bedroom, having volunteered to clean up the damage done there by the electro-charge Mechakara had planted. It wasn't an easy task. The entire left wall was scorched black, and the furniture had been thrown every which way by the force of the explosion, most of it smashing into bits upon landing, but he'd managed well enough. The majority of the debris he'd gotten rid of, the slight hull breach he'd patched with caulk and a piece of plywood. The room felt lukewarm, and the air was thin, but O2 levels were adequate enough for him to stay. That was fortunate. He didn't want to be around anybody right now.

He sat on top of the jackknifed bed in the corner. The mattress was leaking filament, the sheets were tangled and torn. His head was in his hands. Everything he had heard earlier was seeping into it like poisonous ooze, the cask from which it dripped being his master's betrayal. At first, he'd refused to believe it, coming up with a billion alternates to the lie Film Brain had shoved in his face. But then he'd remembered the deadly seriousness on the Brit's face, the haunted look in his bulging eyes, and it was then that he knew what Film Brain had said was true. The Cinema Snob was no longer an outsider artist. He had become one of them.

One of them.

Those words were like a red-hot sword made of photons being jabbed into his pancreas. Never, in his eighteen years of living, in his six month or so tutelage as a junior critic, would Luke have ever dreamed of such treachery from his master. How could The Snob do this? How could he just toss everything aside—his integrity, his dreams, his passion—and become a soulless Hollywood zombie in a suit? The answer was simple: Because he'd forgotten everything he'd ever taught, everything he'd passed on to his mentee, and surrendered because it would be easier than fighting the system.

_What happened to 'you get my back, I'll get yours'? _Luke thought bitterly. Another black thought came rocketing forth just as quickly: All of this was as much his fault as it was The Snob's. He hadn't kept up his end of the bargain either. The Snob had been abducted from right under his nose, and taken to the brainwashing facility or whatever The Executor had used to lull him over to the dark side. He could've prevented The Snob from being captured, but he hadn't. The Snob may have been a dirty coward, but he was even worse. He was weak. And there was no excuse for showing weakness in the face of the enemy.

But what could he do? He couldn't ask the others for help. They couldn't complete his training, or make him feel any better about his failures. Inside he found nothing but a hanging judge, condemning him a million times for things he could've done better, for all the things he could be doing. Each verdict shouted out was like a knife to his soul—_weak, useless, pathetic, incompetent._ He had no idea what to do. His inner critic was consuming him. He was a _ronin_ now, wandering aimlessly in search of answers and relief. But there was no outlet for his anger, his fear, his sadness. There was no escape. So what else was there for him to do but repair the damage done to the ship and hope that the others could defeat The Executor and Darth Snob without him?

_**Luuuuuuuuuuuke… Luuuuuuuuuuke…**_

A sudden voice made Luke raise his head. In front of him, a small white ball of light was coalescing. The ball expanded to include a head and a pair of legs, and two arms which were waving back and forth slowly. A strange man in a robe came into view. His bearded face was calm, stoic, rational, a balm which Luke sorely needed. In awe, he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes, and realized that he knew the specter floating in front of him.

"Last Angry Geek?" he said.

_**Yes, it is I, **_Last Angry Geek replied. _**Fear not. I am not here to harm you, for my character is at peace. I have become one with the Plot.**_

"Really? Wow…" Luke stood up and approached the diaphanous form in front of him. "I've heard about this. Cinema Snob—I mean, my former master—told me you could do this if you study fiction hard enough. He said it was a lot of work, though. How do you feel?"

_**Somewhat airy, like I've swallowed a helium tank,**_ Last Angry Geek replied, frowning as Luke's hand passed through his midsection.

"Wait, doesn't that mean you're dead? What happened?" Luke asked.

Last Angry Geek's face grew grim. _**It is of no concern, **_he replied. _**I have little time, Luke Mochrie Film Conscience. Listen to me very carefully: You must go to the internet. There you will find Master OanCitizen, the highbrow reviewer. He is a brilliant teacher, who has completed the training of many of the Order's acolytes, and, schedule permitting, he shall complete yours.**_

"OanCitizen?" Luke said. "How can he help me? He's back on Earth."

_**Time and space are meaningless to one who fully understands the Plot, **_Last Angry Geek replied. _**With his knowledge, you will find the means to overcome The Executor and defeat Darth Snob, the douchebag who helped him defeat me.**_

Luke's relief faded as those worse sunk in. "I can't," he said. In spite of the anger he felt at the name, a part of him still believed that The Snob would never truly betray him, not after all the critiques they'd shared or pop culture discussions they'd had. "I can't kill my former mentor, even if he has crossed over to the dark side. It's impossible."

_**Nothing is impossible, Luke, **_Last Angry Geek replied. _**With the power of the Plot on your side, you can accomplish anything. All you have to do is deny your basic humanity, invade an armed to the teeth enemy space station and shove a molten holo-sword down your former best friend's esophagus. It's the only civilized way.**_

"Maybe there's another way," Luke reasoned. "You said nothing's impossible. If I could just get to him onboard the Death Bomb, I could try and reason with him and get him to come back to our side. I know there's still some good in him, somewhere…"

Last Angry Geek stroked his transparent beard. _**Perhaps, but perhaps not, **_he said. _**He is more corporate now than man, twisted and evil. You, Luke, are still good and innocent. You have not bought into the Hollywood hype. If you can maintain your integrity, you may have the chance to save your former master, but I fear he will not listen. He is too far ensconced in cliché and retread…**_

"Isn't there anyone else who can help? I'm surprised Film Brain wasn't interested, considering the level of fanboy he usually is…"

At that moment, a panicked Film Brain wrenched open the door to the bedroom. "Luke, you would not believe what just happened to me!" he said. "I was downstairs, and all of a sudden this really weird ghost guy appeared in front of me, and he looked a lot like Last Angry Geek, and he started to tell me about all this weird stuff like the internet and OanCitizen and the Plot, and I couldn't hear most of it because I was screaming too loud! It was so scary! I mean—"

Film Brain suddenly noticed Last Angry Geek's projection floating beside him. He screamed, vaulting back out the door and down the hallway, leaving Last Angry Geek and Luke alone once again.

"Oh," Luke said.

_**Yeah. He's not really so much of a fanboy as a classic British sissy boy, **_Last Angry Geek replied. _**Therefore, the task must fall to you alone, Luke. You are the key to The Executor's defeat. Find Master Oan. He will complete your training. Listen to him and follow his teachings well. Then, when the time is right, you must go to the Death Bomb and battle for the fate of the galaxy.**_

"And if I fail in this task?" Luke asked.

_**Then all is pretty much fucked.**_

Luke thought hard about what to do. In his head, two voices sounded out their opinions. The critical part of his mind, Philip, told him the battle could be won; The Snob had been a powerful critic, but if he could complete his training, then he would have enough power to match and defeat his former mentor in battle. But Ringo, the emotional part of his mind, told him that he could never face down The Snob, no matter how powerful he got. The Snob was his friend—_had _been his friend—and even if he were the most cynical executive on the planet, he would still remember his apprentice's loyalty. Luke listened carefully to both his inner voices, then looked at Last Angry Geek.

"Alright, I'll do it," he said.

_**The torch is passed. Train well, Luke Mochrie Film Conscience. Yours is the power to wield against evil. Be strong, be wary of narrative traps, and guard your emotions. For they could be made to serve The Executoo**__oooooo_or… woooo I'm ghostly…

Last Angry Geek's ethereal form dissipated. Luke rose from the bed, renewed and rearing to complete his training. First he had to find his laptop. It was downstairs somewhere. That didn't matter. He couldn't stay in here forever; it was dark, and there were weird smelly stains all over the place. He opened the door and stepped out into the light of the corridor. The internet beckoned. Master Oan was waiting.

* * *

Europa looked magnificent from orbit. The Hole rose like a pendulous diamond over its great eastern sea, filling the entire half-surface of the moon with eerie blue light. Wispy clouds filled the atmosphere. The islands beneath were lush, green, and beautiful, filled with thousands of new potentialities, new life bursting out from their every pore, waiting to evolve and be given the chance to create, to do what they wished make their own way in the universe as best they could.

"_Holy crap this is boring!" _Terl cried. "_What the hell's taking him so long?"_

Terl had been watching Europa on the viewscreen from the couch for the past hour. He was waiting for the call from The Executor to come through. That call would signal the end of his lazing about. The Death Bomb had finally arrived at Jupiter. It was orbiting around the opposite side of the gas giant, and at its master's command it would rendezvous with Terl's ship and begin to siphon energy from the Hole, making it the ultimate ultimate power in the universe. Then, and only then, would their victory would be complete. So why didn't The Executor just call already?

"**Be silent, my apprentice," **Zod said, sitting serenely on the opposite end of the couch, eyes closed. He had been doing some weird Kryptonian yoga for about thirty minutes—_Torquasm Vo_, he called it. "**As it is said on Krypton's southern continent, 'All things shall occur as they may; to pluck a time-flower from its stem requires patience, and an intimate foreknowledge of its budding cycle'."**

"_Wow, so helpful. I didn't know fruity poetry was in the Kryptonian itinerary."_

"**It is not. That is why we annihilated the southern Kryptonians during the War of the Fifth Age. They were pathetic and insolent."**

Suddenly: "Sirs! The Executor is hailing us from the Death Bomb!"

"_I'll get it!" _Terl leaped up from the couch and sped to the viewscreen, knocking the ensign aside. With a press of a button, The Executor's new throne room appeared. A hideous grey man-bag in a black robe leered out at them.

"_Greetings my mas—WOAH!" _Terl leapt back from the bloated troll. "_What happened to you? You look like a melted vanilla candle!"_

"_**Nice way to greet your master, dingus," **_The Executor replied, grimacing.

"**Has there been any trouble, my lord?" **Zod asked concernedly as he got up.

"_Kiss up."_

"_**None worthy of your attention, General," **_The Executor replied. "_**Although my battle with Last Angry Geek has left me… scaaaaaaared… and defooooormed…"**_

"_Uh, Executor? You alright?" _Terl said. "_Are you having a stroke?"_

"_**I am still more powerful now than I have ever been. How goes the reconstruction effort on the moon?"**_

"**The damage done by the critics is being repaired, my liege," **Zod replied.

"_**Good. And where are the critics, my apprentice?"**_

"_On the run, like the cowardly chicken-shits they are!"_

"_**Gooooooooooood. Then your work here is finished, my friends. Remain aboard the command ship and await any further orders. The armada will arrive at Earth within its next day-cycle, and with their firepower, nothing will be able to stop them. Victory is imminent."**_

"_But what of The Critic?" _Terl asked, raising a gloved fist. "_Surely you must want him disposed of for good. And what of The Snob we sent you? Did he keep in express delivery?"_

"_**They are of no concern," **_The Executor replied. "_**Soon the critics will be crushed, and The Snob is already one of us. This calls for a celebration, perhaps a coke party where we spend all the money we earmarked for better screenwriters on blow. We'll invite the Olsen twins and Tarantino over. It'll be fantastic…"**_

"**I agree, my lord. A celebration worthy of mighty Kandor's founding is needed," **Zod said. "**We require commendable entertainment; I shall place an ad on Craigslist immediately!"**

"_With all due respect, Executor," _Terl said. "_I don't feel entirely safe throwing a victory party while The Critic still lives! He could be planning a counterattack as we speak!"_

"**Nonsense! You heard the man, we are invincible! It is party time!"**

"_If we lower our guard now, he might get the drop on us! Listen to reason!"_

"**Tough reason, braid boy! We're going to party whether you like it or not!"**

"_It's my damn ship, and I say no partying!"_

"**This is not your ship!"**

"_Is too!"_

"**Is not!"**

"_Is too!"_

"_**Be silent! Don't make me warp over there and separate you two," **_The Executor warned. "_**Zod may party if he so wishes. Terl, keep a watchful eye out for The Critic. Everything must go as I have foreseen."**_

"**We shall obey, O gracious master," **Zod said, bowing.

"_Oh you are _such _a suck up!" _Terl cried.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** More angst from Luke.

To answer a question asked earlier: the little reference I put in about the novelization itself doesn't have any effect on the rest of the story. Just think of it as a little "in-universe" aside. Also, you've been reading the "Special Edition" of _To Boldly Flee: The Novelization_. Isn't that cool?

-Xoanon


	44. Part 7, Chapter 43

**Chapter 43: Life, Cinema, and Everything**

_The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire._

—Ferdinand Foch

* * *

Luke brought up Skype on his laptop and typed in OanCitizen's phone number. He had secluded himself in the ship's brig, a small empty room on the second floor. Aside from a small desk and some cardboard boxes he didn't know what used to be in here. It didn't matter now. They were traveling at full impulse toward Europa, toward the Death Bomb and the waiting Executor. He didn't really have any time to learn much of anything about narrative structure or character building. Whatever magic training techniques OanCitizen had at his disposal would have to be stretched to their breaking point to get him up to fighting strength in time.

The Skype call went through. OanCitizen, a bearded, heavyset man dressed in an olive-green suit and black tie, answered it immediately. He was holding an _Encyclopedia of Science Fiction _in one hand, a long-stemmed pipe in the other. Luke had no idea how he'd been able to answer the call in the first place. "Ah, hello," he said. "Um… you're Luke, right?"

"Hey, OanCitizen. I mean, Master Oan…"

"No need for stuffy titles, junior. The Order and I have an understanding about that," OanCitizen replied. "Anyway, what's on your mind? Film Brain need some symbolism explained for him again? The Snob want to continue our ongoing debate about the merits of late 70s Polish art house cinema?"

"Actually, no," Luke said. "This is going to sound really weird, but… I'm kind of in space right now, and a bunch of guys from the site and I are fighting this evil galactic overlord who's plotting to take over all life as we know it. He's already taken The Snob under his wing as his dark apprentice, and Last Angry Geek appeared to me as a ghostly apparition and told me I have to study the Plot and become a true master, and he told me you're really good at being a mentor and—"

"Wait wait, hold on a minute." OanCitizen waved his hand, stopping Luke's rambling. "You're telling me you want me to be your master and complete your training?"

"Uh, yes."

"You want me to condescendingly lord over you, boasting about my intellectual prowess and superiority every waking second, give you orders that conflict with each other and seem pointless until I explain their deeper meaning, and always be right in your eyes no matter how shitty or self-serving my behavior gets?"

"Yes."

"Oh thank the maker!" OanCitizen said. "I knew this day would come! One moment, please—" He immediately dropped his pipe and book and reached for something off screen. It turned out to be a pair of green elfin ears, which he put on. "Now, let's get to work!" With that, he left his chair and stepped away from the computer screen.

"Uh, OanCitizen?" Luke said, leaning into his computer slightly. "Where'd you go?"

"Hi there!" A voice next to Luke's head told him that OanCitizen was now sitting right next to him on the floor. He jumped back as OanCitizen made himself comfortable, adjusting his ears and taking out a small yellow notebook he'd brought with him.

"How'd you get here?" Luke asked.

"Tenacity," OanCitizen replied proudly. "Neither rain nor sleet nor time nor space can keep me from my true calling of being a mentor."

"I meant how did you get onto the ship?"

"Jump cut. Well, technically it's a jump cut combined with parallel action; very Stephen Sharpe, I'll give you a book on it later. Anyway, jump cuts—" He stood up suddenly. "—one of the many tools of the Plot. Properly used, they can create a sense of atmosphere, link two dissimilar events, and provide tension in a dramatic scene."

"That's the stuff I need to know," Luke said, also getting to his feet. "Master Oan, will you teach me the ways of the Plot?"

"Of course," OanCitizen replied. "Help you I can. Mhmhmhmhm."

"That… wasn't a very good Yoda."

"I know. Still working on it." OanCitizen began to pace around the tiny room. "We must start forthwith, my young apprentice," he said. "Your training shall be long and arduous. It will take many months of study—long, grueling hours spent in the swamp, hauling me around on your back, eating tasteless porridge, and not to mention giving me a sponge bath whenever I—"

"Uh, Oan?" Luke interrupted. "I've only got a couple hours."

"Oh. Okay, the abridged version then." OanCitizen reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small syringe. He tossed the syringe to Luke. "Take this."

Luke read the label out loud: "Alexproyasac—A lifetime of training in a single hit."

"All the knowledge I could give you lies inside that little needle," OanCitizen said. "Every trope and trick and I know, every Ur example, every deconstruction and reconstruction, postmodern interpretations, feminist interpretations, queer theory, and a little hint of Bellsario's Maxim. If this can't make you into a true master of the Plot, nothing can."

"Is it safe?" Luke asked.

"I sincerely hope so." OanCitizen, without further ado, jammed the needle into Luke's neck vein. There was a bright, blinding flash of light, then a sea of colors, then—

* * *

Luke stood in front of an enormous vista of screens, each one of them playing a different movie. There were dramas, comedies, westerns, romances, action movies, sci-fi movies, period pieces, noirs, and several others which seemed to have no set genre at all. He watched as the images from them danced and splayed themselves in crystal clear resolution. They were beautiful; three gunslingers had a shootout in a graveyard, a man and a woman in a ballroom danced perfectly to a gorgeous sounding waltz, a robot in a tube came to life. It was a microcosm of cinema. He was seeing a representation of all possible movies at once.

_Wow, _he said.

_**Beautiful, isn't it? I remember my first time…**_

_Oan? _Luke turned to see OanCitizen standing next to him.

_**Yep. I took a hit too. No mentee of mine gets sent into the breach without backup. **_Oan's lips didn't move. He was talking to Luke without speaking a single word.

_Where are we?_ Luke asked.

_**Inside your mind. You're probably wondering why I'm here with you…**_

_Not really._

_**It's because I've inserted myself into your thoughts. It is my method. This panoply is here to teach you the ways of the Plot. **_

OanCitizen waved his hand. The movies flickered, the screens rolling over to show new images; the Man in the Moon with a rocket stuck in his eye, a baby carriage falling down a flight of steps, a psychotic general smoking a cigar. _**Characters' strength flows from the Plot, **_Oan said. _**It is their sustenance, their life force. All that they do in the story—every event that transpires, every moment—only does so according to the Plot. If the Plot is good, then the characters prosper and much fun is had by all. If the Plot is bad—**_

_Then the characters suffer, _Luke finished.

_**Precisely. You see, then, that we must take our connection to the Plot seriously. As writer, it is your job to express the Plot, to help it flow, and to help the characters find their places within it. Characters must develop in accordance with their situation in the Plot, and a character only grows or remains stagnant by the author's will alone.**_

_So the author controls the plot?_

_**Not entirely. The Plot is random, untamed. Sometimes it may go exactly as the author intends it to. Other times it may branch off into different areas, leaving main characters and situations far behind. On some occasions it may outstrip the author's capacity entirely and come crashing down. These are the dangers the author must face when he focuses on the Plot.**_

_But that's all you need to do to be a good writer? Focus on the Plot?_

_**Unfortunately, no. There is a dark side:**_

Oan waved his hand again. The movies disappeared, leaving the screens blank. They were replaced by an endless sea of green hundred dollar bills. _**Protectionism, stifling of artistic creativity, unnecessary tampering with characters, selling out; these paths lead to the Dark Side of the Plot. They are tools of the uninitiated, the lazy, the greedy, and to embrace them means ruination. **_The bills were replaced with a wasteland of horrible movie scenes; a childlike frogman ruining a beloved franchise, offensive stereotypical robots speaking in pseudo-gangster gibberish, shrieking pop starlets dancing around to disco tunes. Luke cringed at what he saw. This wasn't cinema. This was the face of the dark side in all its ingloriousness.

_It's awful. How could anyone tolerate this?_

_**Desperation. The Snob was seduced by the promises of the Dark Side. He once had vision, and dreams that no studio system could ever possibly encompass. But The Executor tricked him, made him believe those dreams were untenable, and in the depths of his despair he chose to become Darth Snob, an avatar of the Dark Side and its dickery. To The Executor, infamy and derision are what make works live forever. But in his folly, he has forgotten something very important…**_

_What's that?_

_**Bad art is a distraction; great art changes people.**_

_I don't understand._

_**Meaning is the soul of all fiction, Luke. The greatest works are the ones that make us feel, that make us think about the human condition, and what it is to be truly alive. There are movies that make us feel absolutely awful, that insult our intelligence and make us deny our faith in humankind. These are the bad films. True, there are good films that make us feel awful about humanity, but they do it in a way which affirms the human condition. They make us feel pathos for the characters and their plight, instead of ire for writers and their whims.**_

_What can we do about bad films?_

_**Endure them, and protest them. As you have heard before, we are but dogs barking at the wind, and in the end nobody can truly force others to accept their opinion. We must let the people decide what to spend their hard-earned money on at the box office. As critics, our job is not to rule, but to guide. We guide through our reviews, and eventually our arguments will change people's minds, and get them to pick better films.**_

_But how can we change people's minds when there's so much crap?_

_**Patience. The people are not sheep. They have minds, and make their own judgments as best they can. Eventually, they make the right choice and begin to see true beauty and merit, rather than continue to jeer at shadow puppets on the cave wall. **_

_But what about the people who keep making bad movies? We can't convince them to stop liking money, can we? _

_**No. But we can beat them at their own game by making movies that are both smart and profitable. There will always be a place for schlock, but it isn't the only thing that exists. For every dozen **_**Phantom Menaces**_**, there is a Return of the King; for every M. Night Shyamalan fallen from grace, a Stanley Kubrick graduates from film school. For every poor soul who groans during an Adam Sandler-funded Rob Schneider vehicle, there's a child crying life-affirming tears when Bambi's mom is shot. Cinema is about balance, Luke. The good and the bad can coexist, because they both do the same thing. They make us feel.**_

The screens and their horrid movies disappeared, along with OanCitizen, leaving Luke alone amidst a swirling sea of images. Oan's voice kept narrating as Luke watched the splendor go by: _**Somewhere out there, a person is finding out what Rosebud means for the first time. In a home theater, a man is holding his breath as Fredo says a Hail Mary on Lake Tahoe. Elsewhere, a woman grasps her heart as Bogie's love flies off into the foggy Moroccan night. All it takes is one moment to make a person feel, to think, to change their mind. And that one moment, no matter how fleeting, is worth a thousand **_**Transformers **_**movies. **_

Luke smelled a rose floating by, heard a gunshot ring out over a crystal clear lake, saw a Lockheed Model 12 fly overhead. It was overwhelming, but at the same time wonderful. He was immersed in spectacle, drama, living poetry. It was humanity on display, an artistic form so varied and yet so unified in its portrayal of their best and worst, of light and shadow, of good and evil. And it was worth everything that came along with it. _I think I understand, Oan, _he said. _I can feel it; the Plot. It's beautiful…_

_**That's it, Luke. Feel the Plot flow, feel its twists and turns. But be wary. Without a clear head you can get lost in it, forget what you wanted, and everything you work for falls to bits. The act of creation is hard work, demanding unrelenting vigilance and plenty of imagination, but if you keep at it you can end up with a masterpiece. The Plot can be whatever you make of it. Never forget that… **_

With that, Oan's voice faded away, leaving Luke alone in his cinematic revelry. An entire life's worth of movies flashed before his eyes. He sat there watching it all, taking in everything the images had to offer, all their nuance and imagery and symbolic intent was his to own. He recognized patterns in the characters, stories and plots, applied them to everything he saw, rewriting them again and again. He laughed, cried, screamed and was more than a little confused. He never turned away. And in the end, old and grizzled, as he felt himself slipping away, he had only one thought left: It was worth everything.

He closed his eyes.

He opened them again. OanCitizen was standing over him, smiling.

"I'm ready."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I know the quote doesn't really pertain to the chapter, but it was just so awesome I had to fit it in somewhere.

This is the rebuttal to Clod's earlier argument: even though infamy can help you live forever, it doesn't make you an artist, and a movie that makes you feel something other than ire is a good movie. And of course, people can like different things without getting egged for it on the street. I'm not sure that's entirely what Doug was getting at, but given what I've seen of his philosophy on movies, it's pretty close.

To anybody who can name all the movies referenced, good on ya.

-Xoanon


	45. Part 7, Chapter 44

**Chapter 44: Battle Schooling**

_Between the black of yesterday and the white of tomorrow is the great gray of today, filled with nostalgia and fear of the future._

—Roger Zelazny

* * *

It had taken two hours to get the _Exit Strategy _up to fighting strength. Much of the damage was beyond total repair, and as supplies began to run low the crew had gotten desperate. They patched up holes in the walls with extra blankets, cannibalized some of the instruments to fix the laser cannons, and jury-rigged another toilet using a bucket and the port side airlock. Their work was complete. Now, they were standing in the thrashed living room on the upper deck, waiting for Marzgurl and Phelous to relay to them their hopefully well thought out and not in any way dangerous plan of attack.

The Nostalgia Chick turned to Todd, then turned away, then turned back to him again. She was back in her regular clothes, and had peeled the metal implant off her face with salad tongs from the kitchen. She was still traumatized by what she'd seen earlier, and every time Todd moved she flinched just a little. Her computerized memory still held the image of the horrendous thing. She saw it every time she closed her eyes. But, she had to deal with this little waking nightmare of hers eventually, and now was as good a time as any.

"Uh… Todd?" she began. Todd turned toward her. She flinched. "I really don't think this relationship is going to work out, okay?"

"I know," Todd replied.

"I mean, you're a really nice guy, but I guess I'm looking for somebody with a little more mystery and a little less… whatever it is you have under that thing."

"I know."

"And it's totally not you. It's me."

"I know."

"Okay. I'm glad we had this talk."

"I'm glad you did too."

The Chick turned away from him again, looking like she was about to collapse in on herself. Todd turned to Lupa. She smiled.

"Can you imagine what it would be like if you ever did end up dating her?" she asked.

Todd scoffed. "Yeah right. In what horrible imaginary parallel universe would that happen?" he said.

"Alright, ladies, it's debriefing time!" Marzgurl entered the room, dressed in the army fatigues and sporting the purple-dyed hair she hadn't had the opportunity to bust out until now. She stepped up to the easel erected at the front of the group. JesuOtaku was pointing at it with a big smile on her face. On it were several childlike drawings of a bomb-like sphere, a fleet of spaceships, Jupiter, the Hole, and the header DRAWN BY EDWARD, which was perched at the top.

"Now, according to our intel, The Executor had made a critical error, and the time for our attack has come," Marzgurl said, pointing to what she assumed was the Death Bomb. "This is the Death Bomb… maybe. Its purpose is to kill us and seize control of the Hole orbiting Jupiter." She pointed to a Hole drawing with a smiley face where its nexus would be. "The Death Bomb has already arrived at Jupiter, and is approaching the Hole's orbit. It is relatively unguarded, save for this deadly fleet of ten thousand or so attack cruisers, each with more firepower than all the militaries of Earth combined." She pointed to a group of triangles with the words MEANIE SHIPS written next to them. Everyone in attendance gulped at the same time.

"Now, everyone here knows that a direct assault would spell disaster," Marzgurl continued. "Which is why we've decided that a stealthy approach would have the best chance of crippling the fleet and opening the Death Bomb up to attack. Most importantly, we have also learned that The Executor himself is personally overseeing the final operation." She looked at the crew sternly. "Many Bothans died to bring us this information."

"What the hell's a Bothan?" Sage wondered.

"Nobody knows. They're all dead," Marzgurl replied.

"Alright, what's the stealth plan, then?" Sad Panda asked.

"For that I'll turn the floor over to…" Marzgurl sighed, then read off a long and unwieldy title she'd written on her hand. "God-Emperor Most High Major-Captain Elite Praporshchik Lord Phelous, The First."

"We really have to let him stop promoting himself," Paw said.

God-Emperor Most High Major-Captain Elite Praporshchik Lord Phelous, The First pushed his way through the crowd, his stolen Dredd armor whacking people in the face as he walked by. Marzgurl stepped to the side of the easel to avoid a dressing down from him before he instructed his army of pawns. "Okay, now with the information provided by Film Brain—"

Joe cleared his throat loudly.

"And the _Bothans_," Phelous added. "We'll use a special attack force headed by Marzgurl to infiltrate Terl's ship." He pointed lazily to Terl's house-ship, or would have if he'd been paying attention. He was actually pointing at Jupiter. "Now, once they're aboard the ship, they'll disable the armada by giving them conflicting orders and sending them on wild goose chases and such. Now, to do this properly, we'll need a distraction, someone who doesn't mind getting shot at or roasted by laser weapons. I volunteer The Nostalgia Critic…"

"Ahem…" The Chick said, raising her hand. "I volunteer for the suicide mission slash distraction."

"Really?" Todd said.

"Sure. Why get stuck with a man when I can stick it _to_ the man?"

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Lupa asked. "You might not come back."

"Please. Dealing with whatever Todd has under that thing made me realize that there are far worse things in the universe than dying alone—I mean, dying for my team."

"Count me in!" Joe said, pumping a fist in the air.

"Me too," a voice sounded from the stairs. Luke stepped into the room, wearing a white bathrobe and with a metallic cylinder dangling from his belt. OanCitizen stepped in behind him. "I'm going to head to the Death Bomb and face my destiny with Darth Snob."

"That seems kind of dangerous." Marzgurl turned to the newcomer. "OanCitizen, is he up for it?"

"He's had about thirty real-time minutes of training with an untested, off-market psychedelic drug," OanCitizen replied.

"Good enough. Permission granted to all of you."

"Thanks. Nice hair, by the way."

"Hey OanCitizen, you want to come with on the violent sneak attack?" Joe asked.

Oan shrugged. "Eh, why not? I could stand to milk this cameo for a few more scenes."

"What about the rest of us?" Film Brain asked.

"You'll be here with Phelous directing the space attack once the stealth mission is successful," Marzgurl replied. "Now, considering the circumstances, I think it's best we promote Phelous—legitimately, this time—to a rank befitting a commanding officer."

"About time, too," Phelous said, his stolen helmet falling over his eyes.

"Alright, you've pretty much given yourself every title in the book by this point, so we'll promote you to… Jesus. Can you lead us, Phelous?"

"Are you kidding?" Christ Phelous said. "With my superior intelligence, tactical brilliance and muscular physique, I was _born _to lead you guys! This is the greatest day of my redshirt li—"

Phelous suddenly exploded in a shower of meaty red chunks. Marzgurl turned to see another Phelous at her left side, in his normal clothes. "Think you can handle the pressure?" she asked the rejuvenated Phelous.

"Eh, sure," he replied.

"Wait a minute, shouldn't we be asking The Critic to do something?" Film Brain piped up. "It's his ship, after all. We should at least ask for his opinion on all this before we start a gigantic gory space battle."

The entire group turned to face The Critic, who had been sitting quietly in a nearby chair during the debriefing. He hadn't objected to a single decision made by the crew in that time. In fact, he hadn't said a single word since they'd heard about The Executor from Film Brain. He stared off into space for a long time, an arm pensively tucked underneath his chin, before he noticed everyone else was staring at him and waiting for an answer to Film Brain's query.

"Uh… not to worry, everyone!" he said. "My contribution to the war effort will be given swiftly, once I think of it, from the confines of my triple-locked war bunker in the attic!"

"I sensed he'd say that," Sage said dryly.

"That is so Critic…" JewWario muttered. The others agreed. The façade of leadership The Critic had put on earlier was dissipated with those cheerless statements, leaving only raw truth behind. The Critic was no hero. He was a coward through and through. A self-preservation streak was coded into his spineless DNA, and not even the end of humankind on Earth could possibly change that. Yet once upon a time, in those heady few days ago, they had assumed, even blindly hoped, that The Critic had begun to turn over a new solar panel, that he'd finally stopped being such an ultra-tool and grown into a true leader, a true friend. But no, it had just been a flux of the Hole. And so the crestfallen crew of the _Exit Strategy_ re-caramelized their hope into resentment once again. It didn't matter now. They had bigger things to attend to; bigger, laser cannon-equipped, heavily armored things.

"Forget The Critic," Joe said. "We've come this far on our own! We can take these guys easy! Let's do this! For the Bothans!"

"For the Bothans!" the crew cried. In spite of their scorn, The Critic smiled at their display of candor. They would win this battle; he could feel it. And they could certainly do it without his help. He had things to attend to as well.

Destiny things.

He tucked his arm back under his chin, and jumped into the dark pool of his thoughts once again.

* * *

The Death Bomb strode over Jupiter's upper atmosphere. If one could stand on the planet's intangible surface and look up past the swirling clouds, it would look as if a gigantic barbell were passing overhead, a barbell accompanied by a few hundred thousand lawn darts. Those darts were the Grand Fleet of the Galactic Regency. Every major capital ship, cruiser, frigate, schooner, yacht and party barge had been called from service elsewhere in the galaxy and ordered to this backwater system to ensure the capitulation of Earth to The Executor, a goal that was well within his clammy grip. The Hole and Europa were slowly getting larger as the Death Bomb's engines worked at full capacity. It would soon clear Jupiter and claim it. Victory was eminent.

To celebrate that victory required a party, a party which Zod had erected onboard his (and Terl's) mighty house-ship. Balloons, ribbons and confetti were festooned around the bridge, along with a banner that read ALL HAIL THE EXECUTOR. On a nearby table were several healthy snacks and a bottle of sparkling soda. In the corner a holo-gramophone played on an infinite loop the ethereal, warbling hits of one of the galaxy's greatest crooners, Vorshanx Vittles. Zod had surveyed his handiwork proudly, thinking it the grandest shindig ever contrived by any sentient being. Now if only he could convince his crewmen to think the same thing…

"**Come on, you guys!" **he complained. On the couch in front of him, the three listless ensigns that had actually shown up to the party sat, cups of sparkling water dangerously close to tipping over sitting in each of their hands, flukes, and pincers. One of them sighed, putting a fluke in the belt loop of his pants. "**This is a party! You must eat, drink and be merry! Zod commands it!"**

"_You know, when The Executor said 'big Hollywood coke party', I'm not exactly sure this is what he had in mind," _Terl said. He was standing by the monitoring stations with his arms folded, frowning disapprovingly. He'd spent most of his time at Zod's "shindig" scanning the nearby quadrant for any sign of The Critic. Aside from a weird blip a few hours ago, nothing had surfaced.

"**Be silent, Psyclown dog!" **Zod replied. "**My revelry does not need your critiques to bring down the partying mood!"**

"_You're right. That's because there's no partying mood to begin with!"_

"**Silence!" **Zod turned back to his floundering revue. "**Come on, gents, it's a party! Don't you know how to act at a party?"**

"_Is that what you're calling this? I've seen more lively Amish funerals!"_

"**We have music, refreshments, merry-making activities—"**

"_The music sucks, the refreshments suck, the merry-making sucks! It's like a rave run by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir!" _Terl cried. "_Apparently, Krypton doesn't teach you how to get funky at any of their hoity-toity Crystal League schools!" _

"**Oh please! On planet Krypton, Zod threw many a wicked kegger!" **

"Kegger?" The ensigns perked up. "Do we really have a keg onboard?"

"**No drinking while on duty. This is the will of Zod." **

The ensigns returned to their indolence on the couch, as well as their flukes to pants. Zod sighed. "**I suppose it is up to me to rescue the festivities," **he said. "**Fear not, for I shall retrieve the vapid Houstonian game known as **_**Apples to Apples**_**!" **

"_You do that," _Terl snarked as Zod left. "_As for me, I'm off to scour the lonely recesses of Jupiter-space in search of a D-list internet celebrity and his cohorts. Wish me luck!"_

"Take us with you!" all three ensigns cried in unison.

"_No! Stay here and 'party'!" _

Terl left. One of the ensigns burst into tears.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Zod, although quite badass at times, can be kind of a dork. That's his character flaw. Terl's is his relentless pursuit of inconsequential things that piss him off.

-Xoanon


	46. Part 7, Chapter 45

**Chapter 45: Utility**

_You can't eat the orange and throw the peel away—a man is not a piece of fruit._

—Willy Loman

* * *

The _Exit Strategy_ was at Jupiter once again. Europa shined on its far side, as did the Hole, and the Death Bomb, a peaked grey moon rising in tandem with its emerald sister Ganymede. In every panel, every wire, every crewmember on the ship, there was a feeling of coiled dread. This was their last battle. They knew it, the enemy knew it. Everyone on Earth probably didn't know it, but they would soon enough. Paw had done one last v-log with all of them in it. It was set to go up on the site the next morning. It would tell anyone who watched the entire story, from the signal on up to The Executor and his plan. Whether or not they failed in their goal of defeating him, of course, would be left to fate to decide.

Fate wasn't on the anointed Phelous' mind as he sat lazily in the captain's chair on the bridge. Victory was. With _his_ leadership, not The Critic's, and the crew at _his _disposal, and not The Critic's, they were certain to triumph over The Executor and his goons, leaving nothing ahead but sunny skies, the infinite gratitude of the entire world, and massive amounts of praise and gratitude money for him, and not The Critic.

"Sir," Eight Bit Mickey announced. "We're within range of the Death Bomb. It's two sectors away."

"Can they track us?" Phelous asked.

"Not yet, sir. CR's cloaking devices should keep us hidden until the assault."

"Excellent. Prepare the away team for beaming." Mickey did as asked, and Phelous opened a link to the upstairs den. "Oh Critic?" he said smugly. "I hate to interrupt your super special 'bunker time', but the real heroes are about to enter into pitched combat, so if you could get off your butt and come down here for a little powwow, that'd just be great. I was thinking you could serve as a countermeasure in case they decide to use heat-seeking missiles on us. Sound good to you?"

No reply.

"Critic?" Phelous repeated. That was odd. Normally, The Critic would respond to an insult like that with a barrage of poorly worded insults. All that came through the line was static. Shrugging, Phelous cut the link and returned to his highly relished leading duties.

* * *

The Critic wasn't in the attic, or the den. He had been elsewhere, busy getting his last dealings aboard the _Exit Strategy_ in order. It had taken a little maneuvering to avoid the stragglers in the crew who were still upstairs, bingeing on food and drink, sobbing, and otherwise mentally girding themselves for the battle to come by painting lines on their faces in coolant. Now, he was alone, and his date with the future was slowly screaming toward him like the previously mentioned Death Bomb. He made his way up the stairs and peered around the corner at the top. Just ahead was the airlock. That was his way out. That was his doorway to destiny.

He started toward it, passing by the stairwell. It was only then that Film Brain, wearing his lucky tan battle coat, came down from the second floor.

"Critic?" he said. "What're you still doing up here?"

"Nothing," The Critic replied. "Just… getting a pre-battle snack?"

"What's that in your hand?"

"Definitely not the keys to the ship's lifeboat." The Critic hid the ring of keys behind his back.

"Critic, where are you going?"

The Critic dropped his flimsy pretense. "You know where," he sighed.

"The Hole?"

"Bingo. It's been nice knowing you, kid. Tell Nostalgia Chick it never would've worked between us. Hope you can get a real job once the internet bottoms out." The Critic turned and briskly stepped toward the airlock, hoping to avoid a rebuttal—

"You can't just leave us now!" Film Brain said, stopping The Critic just as he was about to palm the airlock's access pad. "It doesn't matter what anyone thinks! We need you! _I_ need you! Ever since I joined this site, you've been a hero to me, and now you're just going to walk away? What kind of life lesson is that?"

The Critic turned around. "I'm no hero, Film Brain," he said. "I'm an asshole in half a suit. This entire mission has been a disaster with me in charge! You're all better off with crazy Phelous, so let me go my way and I'll let you go yours, and we'll meet up when hell freezes the fuck over!"

"You are a hero, Critic!" Film Brain said. "You've been a great captain, and you're still the best critic we've got! You make people laugh as you tell them how much their treasured childhood memories suck! Who else on the site can do that without getting a buttload of hate mail?"

"Oh yeah, what I do takes _so_ much effort," The Critic scoffed. "All I do is yell and scream and cuss, make six in-jokes, fifteen pop culture references, and occasionally—just occasionally, mind you—actually do something funny in the span of twenty to thirty minutes! I'm a mindless ball of anger complaining about movies I don't like and didn't have to watch in the first place! What kind of critic does that?"

"Pretty much all of them," Film Brain replied.

"It doesn't matter what happens to me, Film Brain," The Critic continued. "My time's done. You've still got a future, at least up until The Executor blows the ship up with you inside it, and you can still call out the bullshit with the best of 'em."

"I never would've had that if you hadn't gotten us all together," Film Brain said. "The site was your idea, Critic. You gave us our voice. You saw something wrong with the world, and you made a place you could call your own so you could keep picking at it, and you invited people in to join you. If that doesn't make you a good critic, what does?"

"Does it make me a good person?" The Critic asked. "All the friendship and kum-bi-yahs in the world don't change the fact that I'm a total prick, and all the stuff I fuck up still comes with a price! How many Kevin Baughs have to let their houses get invaded because I get too big for my britches? How many Ma-Tis have to die before I can be satisfied with what I have? How many crappy internet laws need to get passed because corporations with more money than God think my pointless BS is actually threatening them? Huh? When does it end, Film Brain? You tell me!"

"It doesn't have to end," Film Brain said. "We can keep fighting everything for as long as it comes. All we need to do is stick together. Critic, please…"

"It's too late," The Critic said. "It's too late for all of us. Cinema Snob was right. Nothing lasts forever. What are we going to do when the bottom falls out of this bullshit?"

"That's for us to decide."

"Well that's great." The Critic turned back to the airlock. "You can decide what you want. More power to you. Me? I've already made my choice."

"And what if it's the wrong choice?" Film Brain asked, voice rising in anger. "What happens then, Critic? What if Ma-Ti's trying to trap you?"

"There's something out there, Film Brain!" The Critic shouted. "It's something that's been calling me for as long as I can remember, something that actually wants me around! Maybe it's nothing; maybe I'm just going crazy and if I go out there the Hole will just absorb me or turn me into a glockenspiel or whatever, but maybe it's something! Maybe it's a job, something I can be useful at, something I can make a difference with! Maybe it's someplace I can do something meaningful and not just hurt people! That's what I've wanted all along! It has the answers I've been looking for my whole life! It has the truth!"

"And what if the truth hurts?" Film Brain said, barely emoting. "What if the truth will haunt your dreams for all time?"

"Did you really just quote Orlando Jones from the remake of _The Time Machine_?"

"No," Film Brain replied flippantly. "I was quoting from the trailer. No one actually saw that piece of crap."

"My point exactly. Nobody needs me, I'm leaving." The Critic put his palm to the airlock's access pad. "_Adios_, Film Brain. Cherish what you've got while you still can, and give Hollywood a good punch in the nuts for me while you're doing it."

"Critic, you can't expect to come back here," Film Brain said. "You heard what Insano said about the Hole's energy. If you go inside it, you may never return."

The Critic turned around one last time. His eyes were wide, and glassy, and sad.

"Return was never an option for me," he said. "In the end, I always planned to go it alone. Goodbye."

The airlock opened, and The Critic stepped into it. There was a loud pop, and a sudden rushing wind erupted inside the ship as its atmosphere began to siphon out the dark hole that had opened in the wall. Film Brain stepped back from the tiny zephyrs that threatened to tear him off his feet and send him hurdling out the door. With concerted effort, The Critic slid the airlock closed again. The tempest ceased, and leaned against the wall, gasping for breath.

"Forgot that way leads to space," he panted. "Who designed this house anyway?"

He stumbled off to find the door leading to the garage, and his lifeboat, leaving Film Brain to ponder his place in the universe proper. This pondering was interrupted as CR came up from the bridge.

"Hey, Film Brain," he said. "You're looking chipper."

"I'm really not," Film Brain replied. "The Critic—"

"That's great. Could you warm up the teleporter me? Much like James Kirk in _Space Seed_, I've got something big, burly and revolting I need to exile before battle, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, sure," Film Brain said. With that, CR left Film Brain to ponder his place in the universe proper, and be disgusted.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** "A man is not a piece of fruit." Willy Loman from _Death of a Salesman _said these words in reference to his desire for recognition as a great man, to be something more than a salesman struggling to make ends meet. The Critic's desire for a greater purpose stems from this same sense of dissatisfaction with his admittedly substandard life and job, which is far too inadequate and unrepresentative of both his and society's standards for high achievement to foster any sort of self-esteem or encouragement to actually be great. The Hole's appearance exacerbated these tendencies, and coupled with his want to make amends for his past behavior with Ma-Ti, Baugh and the other people he's wronged over his career, The Critic channels these fears into action, explaining his obsession with the Hole and its potentialities. Film Brain, serving as the Biff Loman to The Critic's Willy, seeks a more realistic approach to these problems in suggesting that The Critic's work has already fostered something great in his creation of the online community That Guy with the Glasses, which gathers a number of people from around the world onto a single site that draws in thousands of viewers each week, much like Biff's wish to see his father pursue his talents in construction rather than salesmanship. Unfortunately like Willy, The Critic, unable to be shaken from his delusions, considers them his only escape. Unlike Willy, however, The Critic is unwilling and unable to help the others in his familial circle become "great" by his standards. Whereas Willy considers his sons Biff and Happy to be his escape from mediocrity, and to this end he lives vicariously through them, The Critic abandons Film Brain and the others to their fate. This is either a last vestige of his former characterization, or the subconscious admission of the many deep-seated inadequacies he still possesses about his abilities and worth as a person, including his status as friend to the entirety of the _Exit Strategy_'s crew.

This has been "Pointless Pseudo-Academic Mini Essay Theater", with Xoanon. Next week's topic for discussion: Todd's mask as a metaphor for commitment issues.

-Xoanon


	47. Part 7, Chapter 46

**Chapter 46: The A-Way Team**

_The nice thing about teamwork is that you always have others on your side._

—Margaret Carty

* * *

In engineering, Film Brain sat despondently at the controls to the teleporter. The away team was on the bridge getting ready, and CR was probably still "engaging chevrons", as he occasionally put it. The Critic was still on board for the time being. He typed in the login code and sat back to wait for the damaged console to putter to life. At that moment, Luke walked in, still dressed in his bathrobe and carrying the weird cylindrical thing he'd made earlier.

"Hey, Luke," Film Brain said. "You're looking better."

"I am better," Luke replied. The aura of crestfallenness that had once surrounded him was gone, replaced with a burning purpose. "What's the matter with you?"

Film Brain didn't respond. He just watched the teleporter load up.

"It's The Critic, isn't it?"

"How'd you know?" Film Brain asked.

"Lucky guess."

"You know, you don't have to wait for CR in here. Your team's outside…"

"I know I'm not going with them."

Film Brain turned to Luke. "What?"

Luke handed Film Brain a piece of folded paper. "I need you to beam me to these coordinates. If I've done the math right, it'll put me right below the throne room."

Film Brain studied the coordinates. His eyes widened. "But that's—"

"I know."

"I can't—"

"You must."

"Why?"

"Didn't you hear me earlier? I have to beam aboard the Death Bomb and stop The Executor myself."

"I heard you fine. We all thought you were kidding."

"I wasn't. It's my destiny."

"But they'll kill you!" Film Brain cried. "They'll laser you to death the second you arrive, or The Executor will feed you to his space alligators or something!"

"Film Brain, listen to me," Luke said. "You're not going to believe me but you need to listen, even though what I'm about to say goes against what life, the universe, and everything says on common sense." He took a deep breath. "You are the last hope for the _Exit Strategy_."

"You're right," Film Brain replied, frowning. "I don't believe you."

"I'm entirely serious," Luke said. "If I don't make it back from the Death Bomb, and if The Critic gets stuck out there in the Hole, you're the only hope for us, and the internet, and the entire universe."

"And exactly who revealed this precious information to you?" Film Brain asked.

"The Plot."

"And does something as odd-sounding as 'the Plot' seem like a reliable source of information?"

"I know it sounds stupid, but you're going to have to try your best to believe me," Luke said. "So far, everything you've told us about the future has come to pass. Who's to say I can't do the same thing from my end?"

"Sounds fair," Film Brain replied. "What do you want me to do?"

"Trust in The Critic. Then trust in me. Then trust in yourself to do the right thing."

"What is the right thing?"

"The key is Spoony. Keep an eye on him and you'll figure it out."

Film Brain sighed, and turned to the console to key in Luke's coordinates. In a short while, the machine began to power up. He turned to his erstwhile enemy and smiled.

"See you around, Dudley Douchebag," he said.

"Later, Spotted Dick," Luke replied. He disappeared in a flash of blue light, on his way to the Death Bomb. A moment later, CR stepped into engineering, still cinching up his belt. He noticed the afterglow of Luke's teleportation. "Did you just teleport somebody? I smell ozone," he asked, sniffing the air.

"Nope, she's all yours." Film Brain hopped off seat and sidled out of the room, heading for medbay. CR took his rightful throne and called for the others: "Strike team, get your soon-to-be-toasted buns in here," he called. "It's battle time! Let's get rolling!"

* * *

"…_**Apples to Apples**_**, the game of hilarious comparisons where everyone's opinion counts," **Zod muttered aloud, reading from the label on the box. "**Ages 12 and up, requires 4 to 12 people to play. Contents of box include—" **His ruminations were by a thin buzzing noise, which his honed Kryptonian ears picked up on immediately. Someone was beaming onto the ship. Who could it be?

The noise had come from behind a nearby door. Carefully, Zod approached it with one beefy arm outstretched, the game box held to his chest in the other. Thin, steely fingers curled around the lacquered brass knob. With a flick of the wrist and a tug, the door was open. Behind it stood two people, a man and a woman. The man was large, bearded and dressed in a black tunic. The woman was petite, icy, and also dressed in a black tunic, though hers had long, flowing sleeves. Zod's worries disappeared instantly. He knew these two well. They had once been his closest confidants in the old days on Krypton.

"**Ursa! Non!" **he said warmly. "**My dearest friends! We haven't spoken since our attempted conquest of planet Houston!"**

"**Zod, darling, so good to see you," **Ursa replied, stepping out into the foyer from the closet. "**It has been far too long, has it not?"**

"**Indubitably, my dear. Kisses!" **With a flourish, Zod planted two quick kisses on both of Ursa's cheeks, Ursa returning them in kind. The same courtesy he did not offer Non, who strode into the room like a mountain on coasters. "**I suppose I should introduce you to the crew before the excursion begins. We are in the final stages of our operation to destroy all opposition to The Executor's rule!"**

"**Charming," **Ursa said, adjusting her coifed raven hairdo. The three strode onto the bridge, where the three ensigns who had shown their faces at the party were still sitting, bored out of their skulls. They were no less enthused by these newcomers then they were at Zod carrying _Apples to Apples_ in one burly arm.

"**Everyone," **Zod said, "**I wish for you to meet two of my closest friends: Ursa Kor-Dan, whose cruelty as Dominatrix General extended even to the children of Krypton, and Non-Seq, a former colleague to the traitorous scientist Jor-El whom I lobotomized into a mindless brute whose only forms of communication are wanton violence and destruction!" **

"Non" opened his mouth to combat this claim.

"**Also, he is mute. That's very important," **Zod added. Non shut his mouth. The ensigns slapped the sides of their soda cups in a half-hearted parody of applause. Zod ignored them to further entertain his new guests. "**So tell me my friends, tell me, what have you been doing with yourselves?" **he asked. "**The last I heard, the two of you were banished by the Bureau of Murders to the Planet of Swirling Needle Storms for your failure to assassinate the Prince of Space."**

"**Ah, well…" **Ursa said, briefly stumbling over her cover story. "**We managed to parlay our sentence into… community service, and are now roving hyper-galactic—"**

"**Oh wait, don't tell me," **Zod said. "_**You're**_** the entertainment for the party?" **He laughed heartily. "**Oh Craigslist, you've done it again! Tell me, will you sing for us?"**

"**Ah… no," **Ursa replied, smiling too widely. Non nodded too vigorously in the affirmative.

"**But Non is nodding yes," **Zod pointed out.

"**That means 'no' on Krypton, silly," **Ursa said.

"**It means 'yes', 'goodbye' and 'your life is insignificant and paltry', but not 'no'," **Zod replied.

"**They changed it," **Ursa said.

"**When?"**

"**After you left." **

"**But you were with me when—"**

"_**Wiki it." **_

"**Oh but you **_**must**_** sing the number one Kryptonian hit single from June of 1983 before we partake in **_**Apples to Apples**_**!" **Zod said. "**To do otherwise would be folly! Come, my brethren, let the musicality commence!" **Zod left Ursa and Non to drag the karaoke machine from the closet. "Ursa" leaned into her stony companion. "What are you doing?" she hissed. "We have a mission to complete here!"

"Oh my, it seems we've run into a side quest," "Non" replied dryly.

The Nostalgia Chick fumed. Buying time for the other half of the away team was their objective, but working with OanCitizen was intolerable, considering he almost never followed a script. Even if he managed to distract Zod by pulling what he called "improv" out of his ass, it wouldn't be any good if they got blasted to bits by his guards halfway through the operation, leaving Joe and Marzgurl defenseless inside the enemy ship.

"Just don't poke any more holes in my story, okay?" she said. "A lot of good Bothans died to get dirt on Zod's groupies for us."

"Fair enough. When do we start singing?" OanCitizen asked.

"I'm singing, you're not," The Chick replied. "You heard Zod; you're mute. It'll give us away."

"But they need to hear my immaculate pipes and range!"

"I'll break your musical pipes if you don't shut your yap," The Chick hissed.

"Fine," OanCitizen sulked. "Just as a formality, do you even know the number one Kryptonian hit single for June of 1983?"

"Well, thanks to Mechakara…" With a few rapid blinks, a wide blue screen appeared in front of The Chick's eyes, her hardwired connection to the Galactic Infonet. She sorted through terabytes of data from countless worlds; celebrity scandals, political travesties, cooking recipes, home gardening tips. Finally, she found what she was looking for and, after committing it to memory at super speed, closed the window. "...I know it's 'Distraction', by Aurona Van-Del; number one for three weeks from June 13th through July 1st."

"Neat," OanCitizen said. "You should probably have someone look at that when we get home, though."

"Are you kidding? I get _Solar Cycles of our Lives _on this thing," The Chick replied.

* * *

In the dark throne room of The Executor, Darth Snob stepped forward, a heavy revelation on his conscience. He supplicated before his master, who was less than overjoyed to see him. "_**I thought I told you to bring me an Egg McMuffin**_," he said.

"_My master, a small rebel force has managed to penetrate this sector," _Darth Snob replied.

"_**I know. Now fetch me an Egg McMuffin, please." **_

"_I feel that my former apprentice is among them."_

"_**Young Mochrie?" **_The Executor said quizzically, pronouncing the surname as "mockery". "_**Strange. I do not feel his presence. Are you sure your feelings on the matter are clear, Lord Snob?"**_

"_Clear as Pepsi, my master. Crystal Pepsi." _

"_**You actually like Crystal Pepsi? Dude, that stuff's nasty."**_

"_I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."_

"_**We've used it as a biological weapon on several planets. How can you possibly stomach it?" **_

"_It's really good if you just let it age a little. Like a year, at minimum." _

"_**That doesn't change the fact that it tastes like garbage water."**_

"_It tastes like purest ambrosia!" _

"_**Whatever," **_The Executor said, waving a hand. "_**When your former apprentice comes before you, you will bring him before me. It is I who shall install an ass-whooping in his shield generator." **_

"_How do you know he's going to come to me?"_

"_**I have foreseen it." **_

"_How?"_

"_**He's standing right next to you." **_

Darth Snob turned to see Luke at his right. Embarrassed, he turned away. "_Uh, my master, I have brought you my apprentice…"_

"_**Sure you did," **_The Executor replied. "_**Welcome, young Mochrie. I look forward to the aforementioned ass-whooping. By now, of course, you must know that your friend can never be turned from the Dark Side of the Plot."**_

"Your overconfidence is your weakness," Luke said, turning to glare at The Executor.

"_**Your faith in new technology and grassroots activism is yours," **_The Executor spat back.

"_My hope that Crystal Pepsi will experience resurgence in popularity is mine," _The Snob said definitively. Both Luke and The Executor were puzzled by this out of place statement.

"_What?" _he said_. "I feel like I had to contribute something." _

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Next week's starting chapter was more than a little frustrating. It's not exactly easy to translate a musical number into prose, as those who've read my _Suburban Knights_ adaptation are aware of. We might be a little late if I can find a better way to express it. Otherwise, be here for the end of Part Seven and the start down the home stretch.

-Xoanon


	48. Part 7, Chapter 47

**Chapter 47: A Catchy Musical Number**

_Work is hard. Distractions are plentiful. And time is short._

—Adam Hochschild

* * *

Zod strode to the front of the bridge, having plugged in the karaoke machine standing behind the couch. The massive, 12 speaker sporting machine loomed over every other piece of equipment in the room. The Chick and OanCitizen stood in front of it nervously. Zod stepped up to the lazing minions and stood over them.

**"Alright, since none of you are cooperating, we're starting this party over," **he said. **"Hit it!" **

The Chick pressed the "start" button on the console. Immediately, a looping drum pattern began to play, accompanied by a weak keyboard effect. The keyboard effect eventually morphed into a fully fledged piano accompaniment. Some light digital horns began to blow. The Chick, with OanCitizen shaking it in the background, opened her mouth and began to sing the first verse:

_ There's a fire goin' on/But the party's just begun/So keep your focus lookin' at me tonight… _

* * *

In the main corridor to the ship, two blue bolts materialized. Those blue bolts were Angry Joe and Marzgurl, the second wave of the away team. Joe had morphed into a grizzled secret agent, sporting a black bandana and eye patch along with a grey sneak suit. Marzgurl was wearing a form-fitting combat suit along with fingerless gloves and purple dyed hair. Their entrance caught the two guards in the hallway completely off guard.

"SOLID SNAKE'S IN THE HOUSE, BITCHES!" Joe shouted. That was the last thing the guards heard before Joe blew their heads off with a shotgun.

* * *

_ So the world's about to end/gonna party with my friends/And ain't nobody gonna say it's not right… _

As The Chick continued to sing, the assembled ensigns slowly began to snap out of their lethargy. The music was no longer an acid spitting drill of boredom boring into their skulls. It was exciting, young and fresh, like someone had distilled peppiness into a concentrate that was being injected directly into their brains. They stood up and began to dance, Zod nodding his head approvingly as they began to rave along, hearing the intruder alert going off on the nearby security console as just another part of the song's melody.

_ And I know/Nothing's gonna stand in my way/No matter what the people may say/Just don't turn around and keep looking straight… _

* * *

"Was that really necessary?" Marzgurl asked, stepping around the corpses in trying to avoid the splatter. "We are on a stealth mission, you know."

"Baby, with Joe Vargas, every pointless, overly-gory kill is necessary," Joe replied. He pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster and capped a guard stepping into the hall from a nearby doorway before opening his headset's communications frequency. "CR? Can you hear us?"

_"Loud and clear," _CR replied._ "Central control's right down the hallway in the master bedroom suite." _

"Any guards coming for us?"

_"Several." _

"Awesome." He turned to Marzgurl, who was less than overjoyed. "Let's go."

* * *

_ And I see/That everybody's starting to yell/How the world around you is going to Hell/I'm here to tell you all it's just fate… _

In spite of herself, The Chick was actually getting into the spirit of things. The audience of dancing partygoers in front of her had begun to swell, their ranks growing ever bigger from the ensigns streaming in from all parts of the upper ship. Vanity and frivolousness aside, it was actually kind of nice being a bubble-headed pop singer, and the fact that OanCitizen had to hush up for once was an added bonus. She started swaying along with the music, getting into the act by directing flirty looks at some of the more humanoid looking ensigns. If this was a last performance, so to speak, then she was going to sell it for all it was worth. With the ensigns enticed, she dug deep into her onstage pipes to start the chorus:

_ I'm a distraction! Of pure satisfaction... _

* * *

The garage door opened out onto an endless vista of black. It didn't matter. The atmosphere in the garage had already been drained. The Critic sat at the wheel of his souped up Mazda. In his head, there should have been other thoughts, reservations at the final step he was about to take, fear—lots of fear—at the car malfunctioning or exploding with him inside it, but there weren't any. The only thing in his head at the moment was the same line over and over. That line was _Holy shit I'm about to drive a car in space this is fucking awesome._

He stepped lightly on the gas. The rocket booster attached to the drive system activated, propelling the car out of the garage and into space. It certainly was awesome. Hands firmly at ten and two, The Critic pushed down even harder on the pedal, sending the car careening away from the doomed _Exit Strategy _and towards destiny glittering in the distance. The Hole was calling him louder than ever now. He was finally about to answer.

* * *

_ Keep all your eyes on me/For what you're gonna see/Will redefine the height of attraction… _

Angry Joe and Marzgurl fought their way down the central corridor, leaving a highly obvious trail of bodies in their wake. So much for a quick in-and-out mission, Marzgurl thought. She was surprised half the ship hadn't born down on them already. From the zeal and number of ammo clips Joe had, she guessed he could probably take all of them on, but they didn't have that kind of time.

"Detour!" she shouted, kicking open a side door and funneling her murderous compatriot into it. They would have to find an alternate route to central control…

* * *

_ I'm a distraction/And I'm ready for action/So the world's gonna blow/Stop complaining and go/To the show! _

The Critic's endless loop of thought was shattered by the sudden "ka-PANG!" of a laser blast hitting his car's bumper. He looked in the rearview mirror to see an enemy triangle closing in on his position, a poisonous looking arrowhead of red and black. It was Terl. The Critic was sure of it, and he'd had enough. He'd been house-jailed, chased across the Solar System and nearly murdered several times by this ass nugget, and he sure as hell wasn't going to get blasted to bits by him now. If Terl wanted a dogfight in space, he was going to fucking get one.

The Critic yanked the steering wheel to the right, sending his ship-car on a loop-de-loop course through space. Terl followed close behind, firing lasers randomly at his mortal foe, drawing out what he knew was to be their last battle.

* * *

_ There're explosions in the sky/and the neighborhood is fried/But you don't have to join them in all the fuss… _

The Chick continued her performance, OanCitizen becoming more disgruntled with each shake of his booty. With one cautious eye on the viewscreen behind her throng of admiring perverts, she monitored Joe and Marzgurl's progress through the ship. A camera had caught them in one of the bathrooms. They were stuffing a guard's head into the toilet while fending off two more trying to rescue him. So far, so good, she thought. She tilted her head back, running her fingers through her hair. _ Act like nothing's going wrong/and just keep playing my song/Until there's nothing left around here but us… _

OanCitizen, having found another mike plugged into the karaoke console, stepped forward suddenly to deliver the next verse. He had no idea what it was, but improvisation was his specialty, so he was bound to think up something good. His efforts were thwarted, however, as Zod nabbed it and delivered the correct lyrics in a rousting baritone:

**And I know/Something's gonna happen tonight/All the stars around us start taking flight/But there's something that invites me to stay…**

As Zod delivered the next set of lyrics, The Chick dragged Oan off for a silent reprimanding. The ensigns failed to notice them break character, and applauded their commander's soulful singing. **_ '_****Cause I'm drawn/To the rhythm of the music they play/And we're all gonna die anyway/So enjoy it while you can, come what may…**

Having banished OanCitizen back to the realm of background dancers, The Chick retook her place on the makeshift stage, Zod stepping up to her with a weird, sort of but not really seductive look on his face. The information on him and Ursa's history had been rather convoluted, but The Chick had seen several important notes about their "relationship" when perusing the data file. She just smiled at him, telling herself that she would cross that incredibly long bridge whenever it came. They both leaned in to deliver the chorus together:

**_ We're a distraction! Of pure satisfaction… _**

* * *

**_ There's a war going on/But in here we've all won/'Cause nobody is slowing the traction… _**

Angry Joe and Marzgurl were now upstairs. The flood of guards responding to the alert still hadn't let up, and bullets whizzed at them from every direction as they ducked into another anteroom. Just how big was this place anyway? This had to have been the twelfth room they'd stumbled into so far.

"Man, this is intense!" Joe said, reloading his pistol. "What's your body count so far?"

"Nothing! I've been trying to _avoid _killing people!" Marzgurl replied. Her harangue caught the attention of another contingent of guards, which began to stomp toward them loudly. "More guards coming!"

"Activate stealth mode!" Joe said. Quickly, the two activated their camo gear, Marzgurl her high-powered invisibility granting armor set, and Joe his trusty infinitely foldable cardboard box. Shortly after the disguises were donned, the guard contingent entered the room. Three ensigns swept past their location to the adjoining hallway beyond. None of them noticed the cardboard box until it coughed.

"What was that?" a guard asked. He stepped back into the room and up to the box, which sidled away. "Hey guys, did someone leave this human-sized cardboard box up here?"

With one thunderclap, both the box and the guard's head sprouted new holes. Joe tore his disguise off as the unlucky minion hit the floor, staining the carpet with blue blood. His decision was a poor one, as the two remaining guards had responded to their friend's query and were now pointing their weapons directly at him.

"Uh, hey," he said weakly. "I think your friend here wanted to tell you about this box…"

The two guards never got a chance to respond. Just before they could fire, their weapons were knocked from their hands by the still invisible Marzgurl. One guard was knocked unconscious when she threw him against the wall. The other suffered a broken wrist and dislocated jaw. Uncloaking herself, she folded her arms and surveyed her work proudly.

Joe smirked. "They always said I could see through women."

"At least I didn't dress up like a Lego brick," Marzgurl shot back.

"Hey! This box is like family to me!" Joe cried indignantly. Marzgurl didn't reply, leaving him alone to pack up and leave before more guards arrived. He patted the top of his hidey-container affectionately. "She didn't mean it."

* * *

**_ Take a step/Come inside/Buy a stub/Ride the ride of your life! _**

Terl was relentless as he and The Critic slalomed through the maze of orbits that were Jupiter's moons. Over Ganymede, they fired bolt after laser bolt at each other in vast, streaming bursts, very few of them actually meeting their targets. Around the vicinity of Io, The Critic managed to score a direct hit on Terl's fuel tank, which only served to make him even madder. Callisto was where he rebounded, delivering several succinct shots to The Critic's super-glassed windshield. The laser blasts rocked and rolled the car-ship, staining its sides with plasma scores and popping its useless tires. Still he kept maneuvering.

"I'm never giving up, you bastard!" he shouted, even though the Psyclown prick couldn't hear him through the vacuum of space. "You hear me? _Never!"_

* * *

**Nothing ever will come from saying never/so join the fun wherever it is…**Zod sang, unaware that The Chick and OanCitizen had resumed their infighting behind him, though he did hear something that sounded like "my mother never loved me", which he dismissed. **There's a power that's growing by the hour/I'm positive I don't want to miss/I'm a distraction...**

* * *

**_ We're a distraction! Of pure satisfaction… _**

"Did you see that plant in the corner?" Joe asked as he shut the double doors to the master bedroom.

"Yeah, it really tied the room together," Marzgurl said. "CR, we're at central control."

_"Good work, Marz,"_ CR replied. _"The control console should be in the corner. Can you find it?" _

Joe and Marzgurl looked at the grey behemoth bedecked in various tubes and switches looming next to the four poster bed. "Yeah."

_"Okay, power it up. The override code is 7485." _They did so, typing in the requisite information. _"Remember, you've got to turn both the manual controls at the same time to unlock it. If you don't, the console will lock me out. Ready?"_

"Ready." Joe and Marzgurl each took a handle shaped appendage. "One, two, three, turn!" The console didn't lock up. A myriad of data scrolled onto the screen, the coordinates for the entire enemy fleet.

_"Excellent," _CR said._ "Good job, guys, I can take it from here. Just keep the console defended until I'm finished."_

"Will do." As soon as Joe spoke those words there came a sudden clattering from outside the door. "Crap, more guards!"

"I got this." Marzgurl unhooked a grenade from her belt and tiptoed to the door. As the interlopers pounded on the door, she unlocked it and send the orb tumbling out into their midst. It exploded, sending screaming guards and body parts everywhere and decorating the walls with a rainbow of various alien guts.

* * *

**_ Keep your eyes all on me/For what you're gonna see/Will redefine the height of attraction… _**

Terl and The Critic faced each other in front of Jupiter's blood red Spot. Both their

ships were on the verge of being totally wrecked. One last shot would do either of them in. Neither one of them had any intention of being the loser. The Critic mashed his foot on the gas pedal so hard it snapped in two, pushing the overtaxed engine to its limit. He fired everything he had left at Terl. Terl did the same.

**_ I'm a distraction! And I'm ready for action! _**

Terl screamed. The Critic screamed. They kept screaming until they passed one another and had to turn back around. It was then that The Critic noticed that his laser banks were depleted entirely. Terl had him at his mercy.

"Oh shit, I'm out!"

_"Finally!" _Terl's voice came through the radio. His ship floated back into view, its

lasers still furiously glowing. He was aiming right at his enemy's cockpit. _"Now, Nostalgia Critic, prepare for—"_

A sudden purple laser bolt cut through the body of Terl's ship. It had come from a weird chrome shape in the distance; the Europa mystery robot guy's spaceship. Terl's ship split down the middle, the front half careening away from The Critic at top speed, Terl screaming _"AAAAAAAHOOHOOHOOHOOEY!" _as it went_. _The Critic shut his radio off, but not without a final message from the mysterious spaceman who'd saved him:

**_See you on the other side, _**he said.

"Yeah, Klaatu Barada… whatever," The Critic replied.

* * *

_ So the world's gonna blow/Stop complaining and go/Just start watching the show/'Cause there's no more to know/Here we go! _

The crew burst into raucous applause, and in the master bedroom, Joe and Marzgurl high-fived. The mission was complete.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Not exactly the best part to translate into words. I tried, though. For best results, play "Distraction" on an endless loop while reading this chapter. Who knows? It may sync up like Dark Side of the Moon in a few places if you read fast enough.

-Xoanon


	49. Part 7, Chapter 48

**Chapter 48: Challenger of the Challengeable**

_Red lights, green lights,_

_Strawberry wine…_

* * *

**I'm a distraction… **Zod sang.

_He's a distraction…_The Chick sang.

**_ We're a distraction… _**they both sang.

_We're a DISTRACTIOOOOOOOOOON! _OanCitizen sang at the top of his lungs after grabbing Zod's mike away. The sudden outburst from the nominally mute Non immediately silenced the cheering crewmembers, Zod and The Chick. She slapped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late. Everyone on the bridge had already heard his last high note, and though they were stunned by its clarity and beauty, they still had several questions about why Non was suddenly a trained singer and not a mindless unspeaking brute.

"Hey, he spoke!" one ensign said.

**"Uh, no he didn't," **The Chick replied. **"It was… an echo effect?" **

"Non doesn't talk!" another ensign added.

"They must be imposters!" a third ensign reasoned.

**"Destroy that ****_fantastic _****tenor!" **Zod ordered.

"Time to go!" The Chick, abandoning all disguise, shouted into her communicator for CR to teleport them back to the _Exit Strategy_. Before anyone could stop them, she and OanCitizen disappeared in a stream of blue light.

* * *

In the master bedroom, Joe and Marzgurl were also readying for transport. As a new detachment of guards wrenched their way through the blackened double doors they dissipated, Joe giving them the finger and his last statement of bravado:

"We're not retreating, you surrendered!"

* * *

"Phelous, the mission on Terl's ship was a success," CR said to Phelous on the bridge.

"I'm sorry, CR, what was that?"

CR sighed. "O anointed Phelous, thy immaculate mission against the enemy was successful," he said.

"Excellent." Phelous turned to the party on the bridge. "Alright, let's get this attack started right. JewWario, take us into firing range and align us with Terl's ship."

"Aye aye, sir!"

"And no barrel rolls this time."

"Aw…" JewWario nudged the ship's engines into half impulse. They complied, still barely able to maintain that great a thrust. Slowly, Terl's house-ship grew larger and larger on the viewscreen. The bridge crew braced themselves, double checking calculations and making sure their equipment would hold out in the middle of combat. This was it. Battle was beginning.

* * *

"Sir! We've got an enemy ship on radar! They're closing in fast!"

**"What? Impossible! Onscreen!"**

The ensign scrolled past several dozen "intruder alert" messages and put the current stream from the outside cameras on the viewscreen. The _Exit Strategy _came barreling into view, its forward guns charging up. Zod frowned, and then took his place at the front of the bridge, his partying mood completely obliterated. All that remained was a strong sense of war.

**"Very well," **he said. **"We shall show these deceitful pests what happens when they try to get the best of Zod! All crewmembers to your stations!" **The crew did as ordered, taking up their places in front of their picture screens. Zod brought the communications relay up and sent a block message to every ship in the fleet: **"Calling all ships! This is General Dru-Zod, Supreme Commander of the Regency Fleet! We have an enemy vessel within range! Target it with everything you've got and prepare to fire on my command!" **

* * *

The armada moved into position. Four great interstellar cruisers peaked over the roof of the house-ship, accompanied by twelve planetary battle destroyers, fifteen space frigates, twenty orbital gunboats, thirty-six cosmic schooners and countless starfighters, each one of them packed enough weaponry by themselves to turn the _Exit Strategy _into a large pile of molten, slightly radioactive slag. One by one, they trained every gun in their arsenal on the requested target. Of course, it wasn't the target Zod had requested. No matter how forceful his orders were, they were irrelevant, because every firing computer in the fleet was taking their orders from the same source: the grey central control module onboard Terl's ship. That module had been reprogrammed with countermanding orders written by CR to target everything that took orders from the module itself, in other words, every ship in the fleet.

No one thought to double check the calculations they'd been given until it was too late.

* * *

**"Fire!" **Zod screamed into his communicator. At once, a mass slaughter took place in the orbit of Jupiter. Cruisers fired on battleships which fired on gunboats which fired on schooners which fired on starfighters which fired back on cruisers. The ships tore through each other like they were made of matter and antimatter tissue paper. Explosions wracked every vessel, big, soundless orb-shaped explosions. Fighters slammed into each other in kamikaze attacks. A schooner plowed into a frigate like a hot knife through incalculably expensive butter. Zod could only watch in horror and disbelief as the entire crown fleet of the Regency was destroyed by its own hands. On the other end of his communicator he heard screaming, then static. He let it drop from his hands.

**"What the hell just happened?" **he asked. No one on the bridge had the guts to answer him, aside from Terl. He kicked open the door to the bridge and stumbled in. His ensemble and general stature had seen better days; the pluvian leather of his clothes were torn and stained with oil and blood, and his neckbeard and dreads were smoking. He'd also lost part of his mustache at some point. In spite of all this, he was rather calm, if a little too calm for his own good.

_"Honestly, Zod,"_ he said tiredly, delicately removing pieces of shrapnel from his arm, _"I hope you've been having better luck than me recently, 'cause I'm on kind of a losing streak. The Critic's back and he totally kicked my ass during our little space battle, he's had some unseen ally I haven't known about until now helping him all along, and the _Exit Strategy_'s back and heading straight for us guns a-blazing. Oh, um, by the way, DID WE JUST BLOW UP OUR OWN ARMADA?!" _

**"We shall assign blame to you later!" **Zod replied. **"Man the weapons! Let none escape the wrath of Zod!"**

* * *

The first real shots of the battle were fired shortly after that. Phelous had watched the destruction of the enemy fleet with an insane sort of glee mired in bloodlust and arousal. The crew ignored him as he bounced around in the captain's chair, focusing on hitting their opponent with red shells and strengthening the forward shields to repel the incoming laser blasts. It was a classic space battle; one on one, volleying shots, with no attempt to use the three-dimensional battlefield of space to any great effect. This was what spaceships had been dreamt up to do—to fight like they were boats on the ocean in the mid-1700s.

Film Brain didn't really care about refuting the cliché notion of two enemy starships circling each other in space like a privateer circling a Spanish galleon. He was alone in medbay, keeping an eye on Spoony while listening to the explosions mash themselves against the shields. It was boring work. He still hadn't woken up from his coma-like state, and probably wouldn't until they got him to the Hole. Then again, Ma-Ti had never said Spoony would ever wake up. All he had talked about was The Critic and his importance to "the story", never saying a word about what he'd done to Spoony's mind or whether he would remove himself from it or not. What was his angle? Film Brain didn't know. All he knew was he'd never get an answer. He would just sit here like a bump on a log until—

"It's a trap, you know."

Film Brain looked up from the cot he was sitting on. Spoony was awake. His eyes were still closed, but somehow Film Brain could tell he was awake. Something about him had changed. He was no longer under the spell of Ma-Ti's character. He was back.

"Spoony?" Film Brain said, leaning forward. "Is that you? What did you say?"

"Going into the Hole won't solve anything," Spoony replied. "It's a trap."

"What?"

Spoony slowly opened his eyes. He looked rather ill, so pale, like he was on the verge of death. Film Brain hadn't noticed that before. "He's been lying to you," he said. "Ma-Ti. I've seen his thoughts, his plan. He's got The Critic right where he wants him. Nothing in the Hole can save us. It's going to destroy us all." He closed his eyes again, and sighed.

"What do you mean?" Film Brain moved to shake Spoony's shoulder, but before he could, Spoony suddenly sprang awake.

_NOTHING! _he snapped. Then, he went quieter. _Nothing… He'll get what's coming to him… _

"What? No!" Spoony began to doze off again as Film Brain leapt up off his cot and began to shake him. "What's coming for The Critic? What's going to destroy us! Tell me what's inside the Hole! _TELL ME!_"

It was no use. Spoony was gone again, this time for good. Flustered, Film Brain stopped shaking him and sat back down on his cot. He was certain this was the sign Luke had told him to wait for. He had to get his possessed friend talking again. Ma-Ti was hiding something, something dangerous, and he had to find out what it was. But what else could he—?

Suddenly, he got an idea. He turned to the projector still in the corner. On top of it was Morpheus, unguarded, with CR's login program still up and running. The dream helmets and rebreather were sitting next to it. That was it. He could set up a one man retrieval mission into Spoony's mind and get the information from Ma-Ti. It wouldn't be easy, but it was possible, and it was better than sitting here doing nothing.

"Alright," he said. "Ma-Ti, here I come…"

* * *

**_ "So, you truly believe the critics can win this fight?" _**The Executor asked Luke as he watched Terl's ship and the _Exit Strategy_ fight from the throne room window. He chuckled dryly, and shook his head.**_ "Foolish young Mochrie, your friends cannot win this battle. They are now lodged firmly within the confines of my glorious trap." _**

Luke's eyes widened. "How?" he replied. "We stole information from your agents—"

**_"Yes… it was I who allowed the information to fall into your hands. It was I who allowed you to know the location of the fleet. It was I who allowed your ship to enter this sector unmolested to attempt your attack on this base. It is quite safe from your pitiful maneuvers. Everything has gone as I have foreseen. There is no outwitting The Executor. Your fate is sealed."_**

"But many Bothans died to bring us that information!" Luke said.

**_"You don't even know what a Bothan is, do you?"_** The Executor said.

"Sure I do! They're those… three eyed things."

**_"Those are Groms." _**

"Pancake faces?"

**_"Sullustans." _**

"Tribbles."

**_"That's _****Star Trek****_, you fool." _**

"Well whatever they are, a lot of them died because of you!"

**_"It matters not. In generosity, I offer you this one choice: Join me, and I shall spare your life apart from the doomed critics of the _****Exit Strategy****_. Defy me, and you shall meet them and your Bothan friends soon enough…"_**

* * *

The _Exit Strategy _hurled everything it had at Terl. On the bridge, Phelous's style of command grew even more grandiose and histrionic with each passing moment. "Yes, that's it!" he cried. "Fire the photon red shells! Arm the mini lasers! _Do as I say!"_

He leapt up just as a safe fell from somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling onto the captain's chair. _"Nope! Not this time!"_ He ducked as an errant red shell bounced around the bridge, exploding when it hit the back wall and knocking the ship's dedicatory plaque askew. _"This time, a redshirt's going to actually do something!" _He deflected a fork of lightning which sprung from Paw's malfunctioning console with a pie tin. _"OTHER THAN DIE!" _He stepped out of the way of a passing car, jumping back into the captain's chair. "Full impulse! Forward shields at maximum! _And keep italicizing my text so that the readers know I've completely lost it!" _

"But sir!" Mickey cried. "They're already confused by the author's overuse of different text—"

_"I don't care, damn it!" _Phelous snarled, fighting off a man-eating tiger with a whip and garbage can lid. _"I'll be italicized until the end of the battle, or burn in hell!"_

* * *

_Well,_ The Critic thought, _here I am._

He was about to enter the nexus of a swirling cosmological entity that had popped into being from nowhere simply because it could. He didn't know what was beyond it; knowing his luck, probably some alien dimension made of strange matter filled with trillions of unimaginable horrors that liked to feast on guys in black suit jackets and red ties during power lunches with Satan. All he had was his pistol left to defend him. He probably wouldn't last very long, or even be conscious when those demon denizens began to practice their insane blood rituals on his corpse. That was a comforting thought. He pushed down on the gas pedal, coaxing his crippled ship into the unknown.

As he crossed the Hole's event horizon, reality began to fracture. His instruments gave strange readouts; O2 content of cabin 30.36%, 50.40%, banana.3%. The dials and knobs of the console waggled back and forth, then side to side, then up and down. The radio display asked him to feed it a stray cat. The spiraling white and blue that had gobbled up the windshield laced itself into a fractal pattern that continued in a sparkling line down the length of the Hole's gullet and into oblivion. He felt nauseous, then sleepy, then magenta. His arms turned into manicotti noodles, then plastic sporks. The whiteness filled his vision entirely. He was rocketing into the Sun.

_"Oh my," _was his last coherent thing he said.

And then he disappeared.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I can honestly say I went a little overboard with the different fonts in the story. I may have to go through the thing someday and fix them. Sorry if they make some parts illegible.

Part Eight is coming. Be afraid. Then sleepy.

-Xoanon


	50. Part 8, Chapter 49

**Part 8: Trippy Meta-Ending Ahoy**

**Chapter 49: Rising Action**

_Sitting in the stand of the sports arena,_

_Waiting for the show to begin…_

—Paul McCartney and Wings

* * *

**_"Your friends are lost," _**The Executor said, as Luke watched the battle between Terl and the _Exit Strategy_ rage on from the window.**_ "And soon the Hole will be ours."_**

_"It is useless to resist," _The Snob added.

**_"I think that's my line."_**

_"Really?"_

_"__**I don't know. It sounds like something Palpatine would say…"**_

"You're wrong," Luke replied, ignoring the quibble over accuracy. "As long as one free being in this galaxy challenges you, you haven't won."

**_"Oh, we shall see…" _**The Executor sat fully upright in his chair. **_"I would love to see someone like your friends contend with the might of this fully armed, operational, and Windows compatible battle station!" _**He turned to the pulpit below the throne room. **_"Fire at will, commander!"_**

Down below, a number of helmeted technicians were working. They calibrated and recalibrated the future shot, taking great care that it wasn't their own ship they were firing on, and slowly beginning to charge the greatest weapon ever created up to full power. On the Death Bomb's equator, two giant panels slid open. A massive phallic laser jutted out into space, its quad barreled shaft slowly rotating into maximum kill position. Its target was the _Exit Strategy. _Luke watched calmly as the barrel began to glow green. He was unafraid, even though his friends were completely unaware of their impending doom, because he'd taken care of this eventuality beforehand. The Executor wasn't the only one who could foresee things…

There was a massive crack. The laser didn't fire. Its green glow dissipated. The thin smile on The Executor's face dissipated as well.

**_"What the hell?" _**he said. **_"Oh goddamn it, did Windows malfunction again? I knew we should've gotten the Professional Edition..."_**

"Actually, that was me," Luke replied. "We already knew your weapon was operational. I mean, it's not like you guys tried to hide it or anything; you killed That Sci-Fi Guy with it earlier. And basically, since you were inviting us in close just so you could shank us in the stomach, it was obvious that someone needed to get onboard and disable it so we could have a fighting chance against Terl and Zod. That's why I put some sugar in the Death Bomb's laser banks before I came up here. Apparently it's great for taking them out. Energy crystals and flavor crystals don't mix."

There was a loud wheeze that reverberated throughout the station. The Executor turned to the window to see a mushroom cloud of sugar being ejected from the tip of the gun. For anyone with a teenager's sense of humor, it was the funniest sight ever. The Executor wasn't laughing. He turned to his apprentice. **_"Snob?"_**

_"Yo?"_

**_"Kill him."_**

_"'Kay." _The Snob activated his holo-sword and brought it to bear on Luke. Luke did the same, their red and green blades clashing in front of The Executor's ghoulish face.

* * *

On the bridge of the house-ship, Zod was having a meltdown. **"This is madness!" **he shrieked, pulling out what remained of his luxurious Kryptonian hair. **"Our fleet is destroyed, the Death Bomb's main cannon is not operational, the floor molding is coming loose and the plants need watering! I-I-I-I think I might be having an asthma attack! Terl, what do we do? For Rao's sake what do we d—?"**

_"Stand aside, Son of Dork!" _Terl said, pushing Zod into the corner where he belonged. _"We've been listening to your so-called 'wisdom' for too long! It's time we do things my way! Maximize power to the shields! Intensify forward batteries! Target the bridge only! And someone get me the _Complete Works of Shakespeare_! I've got some quoting to do!" _With a flourish of his hand, Terl was back in command. The crew didn't cheer at this re-mutiny of Terl's, only shrugging and doing as ordered. Terl watched as his first volleys struck the _Exit Strategy _on the port side. He grinned. Even with The Critic lost in space, it wouldn't take too much effort to leave him with nothing worth returning for.

_"From smell's fart, I stab at thee!"_ he cried. The crew collectively rolled their eyes.

* * *

The next few minutes of battle were the absolute worst the _Exit Strategy_ had ever seen in all its days of service. Blast after laser blast rocked the ship, smashing its shields and cutting deep gouges into its forward armor. The crew inside was tossed like a salad in a dryer. They fought back as best they could, but Terl's maneuvering was too adroit for their aim to match, even though he did it with the skill of an elephantine ballerina. The red shells bounded off his shields into deep space, and the hull, stripped of its outer protective shell in several places, slowly began to give way under the repeated onslaught. They were losing.

* * *

Film Brain strapped himself into Morpheus, ignoring the loud knocks against the hull and sparks that trickled down from the ceiling. He had placed the other helmet on Spoony. He was about to embark on a mission, an impossible mission, one that would either save The Critic or break his own mind into a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle. He really hoped the latter wouldn't happen; he was terrible at jigsaw puzzles. He pressed Morpheus's lever, sending himself into the realm of dreams once again.

This time, the Antechamber didn't even appear. As if by magic, he was back inside the Hole-infused part of Spoony's consciousness, and the holey Ma-Ti stood in front of him once again. He was smiling, but he looked more dangerous now. The colors washing over him were more vibrant, more threatening. Deep blues and purples were pulsating all over his chest and arms and face. It was creepy to look at for more than a few seconds. Film Brain put on his glasses, not because Ma-Ti's internal light was too bright, but because he wanted to look as intimidating as he could.

**_Welcome back, Mathew Buck Film Brain, _**Ma-Ti said casually. **_I'm impressed. To be honest, I didn't think you'd have the guts to come back here and face me._**

"So, you're really not all that Star Child-like after all," Film Brain replied. "Figures."

**_It was an act, you simpleton. I had to keep you and the others distracted so I could have the opportunity to execute my plan. Not like it was that hard to do, anyway, what with all the other distractions… _**

"Alright, Ma-Ti, enough games. What's inside the Hole?"

**_You'll just have to be patient. We can't have you ruining the surprise for everyone else, can we? _**

"It's just you and me here, Ma-Ti. No one else on the ship knows I'm inside Spoony's mind. I'm alone."

Ma-Ti was silent.

"You've got nothing to lose. Tell me."

**_Oh, nothing much, _**Ma-Ti said.**_ Just… a reckoning…_**

"A reckoning with what?" Film Brain asked.

**_With the past, present and future, the totality of a character, and The Critic's destiny..._** Ma-Ti replied. The bluish-purple fire in his limbs grew as he spoke.**_ All these things he will be confronted with before being given his choice. That is the climax. All the threads and twists of the Plot have led The Critic to that one location, that one moment. It's what I've been waiting for all along, Film Brain. This is how the story finally ends. And trust me when I say, that after The Critic is judged for his sins, he will be found… wanting._**

* * *

The Nostalgia Critic woke up.

He was on a couch of some kind. An alien death couch? No, not entirely. It was a tad overstuffed, but otherwise fine. The world beyond that was still somewhat grainy. He felt groggy, like he'd slept for a billion years or something. The last thing he remembered was driving into the Hole at full speed. He'd watched his fingers pop off, sprout faces and perform "Puttin' on the Ritz", and remembered he had to water his shoes at turpentine o'bacon, and watched a sad tortoise say nothing had ever loved him and set itself on fire, then—nothing.

He sat up. The world became widescreen and began to focus properly. He was in a living room. An end table, TV, bookshelf, lamp and some china cabinets were scattered around the floor space. The furniture looked familiar. It _was_ familiar. It was his furniture. He looked behind him. A row of glass panels filled out the wall, looking out onto a busy road in suburbia. _His _suburbia. He looked to the side. His laptop was sitting on the cushion next to him.

"Where am I?" he asked.

Already, he knew the answer. He was back in his own living room, in his own house, on Earth. In other words, he was right back where he started. The entirety of the past two weeks or so of his life had been nothing but a dream. He'd fallen asleep on the couch while going over a script for the next episode of the stupid web show he did for a bunch of people wasting time on the internet, on a site with a whole bunch of other people who hated his guts because of what an asswipe he was. That was it. That was the end of the story.

And that really fucking pissed him off.

"Oh my shit, really!?" he said to the empty room. "Really? This is the big twist? It was all just a dream the whole time?" He smacked the side of his head. "Nice going there, imagination! Real fucking original! I totally didn't see this coming, you blew my mind! God, what a gyp! What a letdown! All a fucking dream! Je-ye-sus Christ!"

He sighed, sidling back into the cushions. The more he thought about it, the more his conclusion made sense, and his anger faded slightly. Of course it had been a dream. The only place he could ever do anything remotely heroic was in dreams. In fact, the only place any person could get hounded by an alien prick, turn their house into a rocket ship, get attacked by a homicidal robot crewmember, and have a giant inconsistency spewing plot hole in space were in dreams. There'd been no logic to anything that had happened to him in it. He might as well have seen sumo wrestling burritos for all the sense it would make.

But it was over with now. He was back in the real world, back with all his mundane problems. Then again, considering real world problems for him consisted of being haunted by douchebag ghosts, homicidal animatronic teddy bears and annoying spell books, invading micronations, finding mystic gauntlets that confirmed magic was real, and getting killed on a regular basis only to always come back unscathed, maybe it wasn't that far of a stretch for him to have gone into space. Maybe…

He put the thought out of his head. Nope. It didn't happen. He'd woken up back on his couch in his house which was on the ground. That was the end of it. It had been a dream. He grabbed his laptop and opened it. It was time to get back to work.

"Might as well check my email first," he muttered, bringing the Toshiba back from hibernation. The screen flickered to life. The Critic stopped dead before he could bring up the internet. There was a Word document open on the screen. It was a screenplay. The title was:

TO BOLDLY FLEE

Underneath the title were the words:

_Written by Doug and Rob Walker_

The Critic's eyes widened. In his head, the logical train of thought that had been chugging merrily along began to derail. He kept trying to get it back on track; this was a prank, he thought quickly. The other guys on the site had decided to get him back for all the crap he'd done to them over the years. This script was a phony. It couldn't possibly have had all the stuff that had been in his dream.

Could it?

He put a shaking finger to the track pad and began to scroll through the script. As he went, his disbelief grew, derailing the train completely and sending it crashing to the ground where it exploded killing everyone on board. It was all there in Courier New: Terl, the house arrest, SUCKA, the plot hole, Mechakara, Zod, The Executor, all the BS references and weird inconsistencies. Another explanation came to him—he was finally losing it. The stress of being a D-list internet celebrity had finally broken his mind, and this was the beginning of a long stay at another asylum. Not a pleasant conclusion, but one he could at least comprehend. He scrolled to the last page. It read:

_The Critic stares at his empty living room. He can't believe his eyes. It was all a dream. That really pisses him off. He starts ranting:_

_CRITIC (Annoyed, tired)_

_Really? So THIS is the big twist? It was all just a dream the whole time? Are you kidding me?_

_(He smacks the side of his head.)_

_CRITIC (Angrier)_

_Nice going there, guys! I really didn't see this coming! You blew my mind! All a fucking dream! God, what a letdown…_

_He settles back into the couch, despondent, and sighs. There's a close up on his face as he ponders everything that's happened to him in the past two weeks. It becomes apparent to him that it really was all just a dream, and that he's back in reality now. He grabs the laptop next to him and opens it, ready to get back to work._

_CRITIC_

_Might as well check my email while I'm here._

That was the last line. The story stopped there.

"What the hell?" The Critic said. That was all he got out. There came a noise from elsewhere in the house, a fumbling of some sort. A figure moved out of a doorway in the dining room beyond. It was too dark for The Critic to see who it was. He got up as the figure moved closer. His eyes bulged as the figure stepped into the living room. His mouth dropped open. It was him. The figure was him.

The alternate him was dressed in a blue button shirt, and jeans, and wasn't wearing a black ball cap, but other than that he resembled The Critic to a tee. He had the same eyes, the same receding hair, the same face and body type, the same glasses. He was carrying a bag of _Ruffles _chips in one hand, a jar of French onion dip in the other. He had crammed a couple chips into his mouth before noticing his guest. He stared at The Critic. The Critic stared back at him. They stood there staring at each other for a long time.

"Oh my God," the alternate Critic said through a mouthful of chips.

There was a sudden rushing sound. The Critic turned his head. The Hole was in the room. It was smaller than usual, floating right above the coffee table near the wall. It was still blue, white and entrancing. The Critic looked at it, and at the doppelganger in front of him. The mounting evidence finally convinced him. This wasn't a dream. This was real.

"Mother," he said.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Notice the dialogue in the script is different from what I've written, like it was in the movie. You'll find out why later...

-Xoanon


	51. Part 8, Chapter 50

**Chapter 50: Some Last Developments**

_Goodness consists not in the outward things we do, but in the inward thing we are._

—Edwin Hubbell Chapin

* * *

Luke and Darth Snob wheeled around The Executor's throne room, their holo-swords like giant glowsticks smashing against each other. The light they emitted was reflected a million times over in the blackened steel and chrome of their surroundings. Luke fought with all his might against the brunt of the attacks. The training he'd received had opened his mind, allowing him to predict and parry each of his former master's blows with ease, although he was no master swordsman. Then again, neither was Darth Snob. Most of his lunges and strikes were halfhearted and lacking the power needed to cleave his former pupil in two. Was he holding back? No. Luke could sense his thoughts; The Snob truly wanted him dead. He was just really, really incompetent at fighting with a sword.

Darth Snob made another attempt to slice Luke's face open. Luke blocked him with a mighty swing of his own, sending the red blade careening into the nearby paneling, which melted and trapped it there. As Darth Snob tried to tug his sword free, The Executor began to laugh, a long, low raspy chuckle. He was enjoying the spectacle from the seat of his throne, popcorn in one hand and large soda in the other.

**_"Good, good…" _**he said. **_"Use your aggressive feelings, boy. Let the hate flow mindlessly through you, like the prattling of a YouTube commenter." _**

Luke lowered his blade. He couldn't let The Executor get to him, not this early in the fight. With every minute he fought his mind was getting muddier. He had to remember why he was here. He wasn't trying to hurt The Snob, no matter what side he'd switched over to or what douche he'd pledged his allegiance to. He was here to try and talk some sense into him.

_ "Master Oan… has taught you… well!" _Darth Snob said, finally pulling his holo-sword free from the wall. _"A pity that your skills are wasted in that stagnant pool of filth you call the internet. You could be doing much more with your life, kid. You know it to be true…"_

"I won't fight you like this, Cinema Snob," Luke replied. "You're still my friend. I'm here to try and help you."

_"Really? Because my bruised kidney disagrees with both those statements." _

"I still feel the good in you," Luke said. "I may have to pummel you into unconsciousness to get you to realize it, but I know it's there. It's dramatic conflict. You still feel there's hope for real cinema, but The Executor's system has clouded your mind—"

_"Stow it," _Darth Snob interrupted. _"The Executor's system is the only system, Luke. It's been that way since day one. Things never change, just like I said. We're always going to be under some douchebag's thumb whether we like it or not. Accept it. It's like slipping into a bathtub filled with Crisco. You get used to it after a while."_

"You're wrong. There's always hope that things can change," Luke replied. "It exists wherever freedom exists, wherever decent people decide take a stand against those that try and squash them. And as long as we all hang together there's nothing we can't overcome. I can help you if you're willing to fight it, Cinema Snob. Let me help you…"

_**"Hey, I didn't get you guys together so you could have a roundtable debate," **_The Executor said. **_"Let's see some action here, people." _**

Luke ignored the dark overlord. "Cinema Snob, listen to me. You have to come back to the light. The Executor lied to you. You can make good films without lots of money provided by suits. All you need is a brain and some talent. Remember every storytelling technique you taught me? All the good independent films we watched together? Did all of that need a studio system to work?"

Darth Snob was silent. Luke attempted to probe his mind for any sign of a crack in his shadowy mindset, but he couldn't tell if anything had gotten through or not. The Snob's mind was still too steeped in doubt and money for Luke to discern any of his thoughts. Suddenly, the helmeted Snob brought his blade up to waist height and reignited it.

_ "It's too late for me, Luke," _he said finally._ "Not after _Dark of the Moon_ broke one billion at the box office. There's no coming back from that!" _

He swung forcibly at Luke. Luke was forced to deflect it again, and the battle of half-wits resumed. The Executor, popcorn slightly askew in his bony lap, leaned forward as the two locked swords. Darth Snob pushed Luke into a corner, delivering blow after blow as fast as he possibly could. A few swipes even managed to singe Luke's bathrobe and hair. Luke countered with a knee to Darth Snob's groin. He ducked behind a nearby pole as the malefactor recovered, using it as a shield from further jabs. The crimson foil cut clean through the pipe, dousing the floor of the throne room in a blanket of steam. Luke used the resulting cloaking effect to combat roll into the shadows.

**_"Much better," _**The Executor said, shoveling popcorn past his chops. **_"Say, you guys want anything? Maybe some hot dogs or Sprite? Crap, where the hell's my wallet…" _**

_"I'm good, thanks," _Darth Snob replied. _"Luke, you hungry?"_

Luke was silent.

_"It's not a trap, Luke. We're legitimately asking."_

Luke was still silent.

_"Okay, I guess he's fine too."_

**_"Suit yourselves." _**The Executor rose from his throne.**_ "Don't restart the action yet. I need to take a pee break." _**

_"Again? You just went like ten minutes ago." _

**_"What can I say? I've got a bladder the size of a thimble and a prostate the size of a grapefruit. I'll be right back." _**

_"Are you sure you don't want me to flush him out while you're gone?"_

_**"Uh… sure, I guess. I think I saw him duck behind that radiator compartment over there. Just don't kill him until I get back." **_

_"Will do," _Darth Snob said as The Executor made for the door to the executive lavatory. He began to stalk around the shadowy catwalks near the throne. He could sense his young former apprentice's thoughts coming from their jutting angles and darkened corners. He was getting weaker. This battle would be over soon…

* * *

The _Exit Strategy_ was on the verge of total collapse. Terl's laser blasts had scored its sides with countless crisscrossing scars. One of the warp nacelles had overloaded, sending the already damaged core into the red. Still, its valiant crew refused to let up, launching their photon red shell missiles in waves at Terl's still spotless fortress. On the bridge, most of the once passable machinery was in tatters. Every major onboard system was either barely running or on the verge of exploding. Sparks flew everywhere along with crew members as the ship listed from side to side with each sickening blast.

_"This is your final hour, humans!" _Terl shrieked through the open communications link. _"Now is the tincture of our crepes suzette!" _

Phelous, still Shatnering it up in the captain's chair, pounded on the armrest to turn it off and shut out the obnoxious voice. _"Fire more photon red shells!" _he ordered. _"We have to get through those shields!"_

"It's no use, captain!" Mickey cried from the super-scanner. "Their shields are triple reinforced!"

_"Damn it! CR, do we have anything stronger than a red shell?" _Phelous asked.

"No!" CR replied, rushing around the bridge trying to do minute repairs on the remaining systems. "The red shells are the only thing in our arsenal that can damage Terl's hull, but they still aren't strong enough to pierce his shields! I'd get to work on something more powerful, but I'm a little busy at the moment!"

_"I have a new invention, everybody!" _JesuOtaku sprang out of nowhere with a series of blueprints in her arms. At the word "invention", Paw sprinted screaming from his place near the security console into a nearby closet, shutting and locking the door. She gave the plans to CR. They showed a red shell torpedo modified and refitted into an entirely new device with a personal anti-deflector screen buffer that would allow it to pass through the enemy's shield relay. It was also covered in spikes and had little wing decals on the side, which looked really cool. She had named it a "blue shell".

"Are you sure this will work?" CR asked, studying the plans interestedly.

_"Absolutely positive! It's the only thing we could make that's more powerful than a red shell," _Jesu replied. _"All we need to do is—" _

Suddenly, another blast rocked the ship. JesuOtaku was thrown backward into the super-scanner console. There was a series of small explosions all around, and a massive electrical surge came along with it. That surge went straight through JesuOtaku. She managed to unhook herself and stumble away, semi-conscious. CR didn't notice what had happened, as he was too busy marveling at her newest and soon to be last invention.

"JO, these are brilliant!" he said.

"Wednesday costs seventeen ninety-five per minute, thanks," Jesu replied.

"So what do we need to do?"

"About what?" Jesu asked.

"Your blue shell idea? Where do we start?" CR shoved the plans she'd drawn up at her. She looked them over. It was like a foreign language to her. None of the equations or schematics she'd scribbled down in her altered state made any sense anymore, but she could still appreciate the well-drawn pictures.

"This is badass!" she said. "Who made it?"

"You did," CR replied.

"What?"

"Do you think you can have it built in at least five minutes? We're probably not going to last much longer than that."

"What makes you think I can build it?"

"They're… your plans!" CR cried. "You're the one who thought it up!"

"That's crazy! I can't even make good toast!" Jesu replied.

CR suddenly noticed that JesuOtaku's hair was no longer a deranged red, and that her voice was no longer high-pitched. He made the connection immediately: the power surge in the console had somehow driven "Edward" entirely from her mind, along with all the brilliance she'd once possessed. Their one hope for winning the battle had just been electrocuted to death. That wasn't good.

Another explosion, this time in the upstairs, sent the ship floundering to the right. *WARNING: HULL BREACH ON UPPER DECK* a computer voice sounded. The oxygen pump began to wheeze and groan. The upper deck was lost. Iron plates slid over the door to the basement to prevent any more of the atmosphere from leaking out.

"Damn it, JO!" CR said, catching her and shaking her shoulders. "You did this! These are your plans! You designed this thing, and now you have to build it or we're all going to die!"

"How? You know how bad I am with mechanical stuff!" Jesu replied.

"There has to be a way! Think!"

"Well… logically, if everything I drew up in the plans is right, and everything I say now is wrong, then maybe we could build this blue shell if… you do the opposite of everything I say?" Jesu winced, hoping what she'd just said wasn't a complete bastardization of the laws of engineering. CR mulled it over, and then spoke:

"JO, you're a genius," he said.

"Your glasses are really neat."

"Alright, can you work with tools?" CR handed her a screwdriver. She held it in her hand for a moment, then let it slip from her grasp and drop to the floor, the pointy end sticking into the carpet.

"Okay, that's a no. We'll need some help for this, then." CR turned to the closet door. "Paw, get out here! We need you to work on JO's torpedo!"

"Is she going to test it on me?" Paw asked from within.

"No."

The closet door opened. Paw stepped out of it, now dressed in a blue jumpsuit with new pointy eared headphones on top of his head. "Fascinating," he said stoically.

"We're going to have to do surgery on one of the red shells," CR said, leading his trio to the door to engineering. "It'll be touch and go, but they've got pretty much everything we need to get your torpedo up and running, aside from the shield busting tech."

"What happens if we can't get a blue shell to work?" Jesu asked.

"Then we'd better hope for a miracle," CR replied. "Because it doesn't look like Terl's planning on stopping anytime soon." Another blast rocked the ship as he said this.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** We can only guess how blue shells are really supposed to be put together. It's a riddle for the ages...

Eleven more chapters to go. Hope you're all still enjoying the ride.

-Xoanon


	52. Part 8, Chapter 51

**Chapter 51: Postmodern Blues**

_Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away._

—Phillip K. Dick

* * *

The Critic and the alternate Critic stared at each other. Neither man was inclined to scream, or fight their duplicate to the death and ensure their rightful place as the only Critic in existence. There didn't seem to be any danger in them existing in the same place at the same time anyway; reality wasn't imploding around them, the Universe Police weren't breaking down the door attempting to arrest them for violating the laws of nature. The Hole next to them shimmered. The Critic had a strange feeling that, wherever he was, in whatever place and time he'd ended up in, the Hole was somehow allowing this meeting to take place. It was a fated thing. Everything that had transpired so far had led him to this moment, and it was here that he would finally find someplace he could belong.

"Who are you?" he asked his double.

"Uh… well…" The man fumbled with his chips and dip for a moment. "I-I'm The Writer," he said at last.

"The Writer?" The Critic repeated.

"Yep," The Writer replied.

They stood there in silence for a few more moments.

"Okay, then who am I?" The Critic said.

"You're the character," The Writer replied. "You're my character—one of my characters, to be precise."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's a little surreal and kind of terrifying to explain," The Writer continued. He set his victuals down on the end table near the sofa and turned to go back the way he came. "I'm going to get some Rumba Mix and pour myself a shot. Do you want anything?"

_"Just tell me what's going on here!"_ The Critic shouted. The Writer jumped. "What do you mean 'I'm the character'? Why am I here right now?"

"I don't know. You're not really supposed to be…"

"If you're The Writer, then it's your job to know!" The Critic pointed at the laptop. "I saw your little script! Everything in there's happened to me already, which means you're the one who been writing my life for the past two weeks, and that means you're the one pulling the strings now! Tell me what's going on!"

The Writer sighed. Turning back from the doorway, he crossed the living room and sat down on the couch opposite where The Critic stood. Grabbing the laptop, he opened it and silently scrolled through the pages of the Word document on the screen. He seemed nervous, yet at the same time like he'd actually been expecting a visit from someone who looked like his psychotic, long-lost twin brother. Whatever his mood, he wasn't too excited to explain himself. He certainly wasn't pulling the strings anymore. He knew that.

"Okay, no secrets…" he said to himself. He looked up at The Critic. "Uh, you might want to sit down. This could come as a shock to you." He gestured to the Lay-Z-Boy in the corner. The Critic followed his host's suggestion, and sat.

"Alright, so—" The Writer gently slapped the keypad of his laptop. "I am an independent content creator on the internet. You are one of my creations. You were a character that I created for an online series called _The Nostalgia Critic_, a show where I, as you, would review movies and TV shows from the 1980s through the 90s and analyze them to see whether they still held up to us now or not. I don't mean to brag, but—" He chuckled a little. "It was a pretty big hit—still is, actually."

"So… what you're saying is, I'm you?" The Critic said slowly.

"Sort of," The Writer replied. "You look like me because I'm the actor who portrays you, but your personality and mine are completely different. As a character you were inspired by people and things that I find funny; Lewis Black, Daffy Duck, Professor Fate from _The Great Race_. I would write you as kind of a second skin, a persona that I could slip into and use to deliver my take on whatever I chose to review that week."

"So that means all the reviews I did, _Bio-Dome_, _Batman and Robin_, _Garbage Pail Kids_…"

"I wrote the material for all of them, along with Rob."

"Rob's in on this too?!"

"My brother, I mean. Your brother Rob is based on my brother Rob."

"Oh."

"And we've been doing this for about five years now, give or take," The Writer continued. "As the site got bigger, we hired on more and more contributors, and the result of that was you got more and more characters to bounce off of. The more you interacted with them, the more you grew."

"Linkara, Spoony, Angry Joe…"

"They're all content creators, and your friends are their characters," The Writer finished. "We have this kind of shared universe that all our reviews take place in, and every so often some of the other producers on the site get together and make joint reviews. All the crossovers and cameo appearances you've had are the result of collaborations between me and another producer."

"Okay…" The Critic lowered his head. He felt ill.

"So every year, Rob and I would write these anniversary specials for That Guy with the Glasses, the website your reviews are hosted on, and all the major producers on the site would take part in them." The Writer pointed to his computer screen. "This is Year Four. Year One was the Brawl, Year Two, Kickassia, and Year Three was Suburban Knights. Everything that happened to you and your friends in those stories was the result of me and my brother and all the other producers hashing out the script. Are you still with me?"

The Critic nodded. He lowered his head even further.

"Good. And, as I was writing this year's script, I managed to get up to the point where you go inside the plot hole, and after that the only thing I could think of inside the plot hole that would be really cool and interesting is if you met up with your writer, me."

The Critic's heart was slowly shriveling up as The Writer told him all this. All this time he'd never had a greater purpose to hope for. Everything the Hole had told him—all the dreams and vision and hallucinations he'd experienced—had been a bald-faced lie. Suffering _was_ his purpose. He was just an angry, pompous, short-tempered caricature brought into existence to make a bunch of people laugh. The man in front of him was the source of every tribulation he'd ever gone through, every death, every slapstick gag, every beatdown he'd ever suffered, and he'd done it all in the name of comedy. If The Critic could've, he would've done things to this man that would've made him sorely regret ever bringing his little puppet into being, but he no longer had the strength. Nothing mattered now. Nothing had ever mattered, not even justifiable homicide.

"Aaand here we are…" The Writer said.

"So that's it?" The Critic replied, barely emoting. "I'm just a character, a mindless automaton with no greater purpose than to parrot your jokes? That's what you made me for? And all the other reviewers on the site are characters too? We're just there to do whatever you tell us to do and say whatever you want us to say? We don't have any greater purpose? No hopes or dreams worth fulfilling? We're all just robots; is that what you're telling me? Am I a robot?"

"Well, when you put it like that… yeah," The Writer replied. "The beliefs, thoughts and opinions of a writer are a big part of what make up a character's character, and most of the time the character simply does whatever a Writer tells him or her to do. You were like that at first. But now? Honestly, I'm not so sure…"

The Critic snapped out of his funk and raised his head. "What?"

"I mean, you used to be just a second skin, a guise that I'd put on to do my show, but you've become something else. You've moved past being just some caricature that mindlessly spouts my jokes and opinions, past being just a flat character with a one note personality. You've become different now. Much more different than I ever thought you'd be. You've evolved."

"Evolved?" The Critic said. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it," The Writer replied. "It's been about five years since you came onto the web. Can you remember back to the person you were back in 2008? Do you remember what you were like?"

The Critic thought. "I was an overly opinionated blowhard with a fuse the size of a candle stub," he said.

"And what are you now?" The Writer asked.

"I'm an overly opinionated blowhard with a fuse the size of a candle stub," The Critic replied. "Some change."

"You're selling yourself short," The Writer said. "You've changed more than you know. Remember your first review about _Transformers_? What were you like in it?"

"Hyperactive and unfocused, I guess. I can't really remember it that well…"

"Are you like that now?"

"Not really."

"Remember how you were ogling those girls in your Top Eleven Hottest Animated Women and _A Kid in King Arthur's Court_ videos? Would you do that now?"

"No way, because it's stupid and sexist to think women are just objects for our enjoyment! They can be badass too!"

"Remember all the times you ranted on something completely inconsequential or silly in a movie, like the Bat Credit Card? Do you do that now?"

"Only if it's really stupid and breaks the movie's logic, or if it's so out-of-place that I just can't help but wonder what the writers were thinking."

"You see? You have gotten better. It's just taken a little while," The Writer said. "With every episode of the show that came out, you became more and more of a three-dimensional character. You started to change from being this abrasive, crude, semi-coherent jerk into somebody who's flawed but also relatable. That's how you've changed."

"But what about everyone else on the site?" The Critic asked. "They still hate me and think I'm a total jerk. Where's the development there?"

"Would the dictator from Kickassia give a shit about his friends, and try to save them from getting enslaved by Terl?" The Writer replied. "Would the money-grubbing, egomaniacal asswipe from Suburban Knights try to find Ma-Ti's space corpse and make amends for lying to him and sending him on a wild goose chase? I didn't expect that when I started writing you, and honestly I never would have dreamed you would get this far."

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence," The Critic replied.

"You see? That's what I'm talking about," The Writer said. "You're not just me in a silly suit and tie anymore. You've literally leapt off the page and taken on a life of your own. It's become less of me writing you and you telling me what to write."

"But I'm still a character," The Critic replied. "You created me in the first place. Doesn't that make you my boss, or something? Doesn't that mean you still have power over me?"

The Writer shrugged. "I guess so. We might still have overlapping opinions, but other than that you're completely independent now. We're not joined at the hip, and you can have your own reactions to what you review because you're a different person from me. It's your prerogative. You've become your own man, Critic. Your life is what you make of it."

In spite of himself, The Critic's heart was slowly re-inflating. His pitiful, crushing despair was being replaced by a cautious sense of relief, one that could be yanked out from underneath him at any time, but still it was an improvement. He wasn't a mindless clown. He was his own person, with his own mind and his own opinions. He wasn't tied to a leash in the ground like a dog. He wasn't somebody's pet monkey trained to dance at the sound of bells or a target for the abusive whims of some cruel idiot god. He could do what he wanted, think what he wanted, and have the balls to correct his own mistakes. He wasn't a purposeless loser anymore. He was free. Finally, utterly, unequivocally free.

"But, then again, I guess you're right…" The Writer mused, interrupting The Critic's thoughts. "As long as I'm your writer, and as long as you stay within the world my friends and I have created, I still have power over you. You're still a character, and a character needs direction and stories to be fit into."

"What? _Oh come on!_" The Critic said. "I was having the greatest, most soul rousting epiphany of my life, and now you're telling me I'm still your bitch!?_ What the fuck!?" _

"Calm down," The Writer replied. "I'll admit that I've misled you a little, not entirely on purpose, but I've been thinking about what I would do when you finally came here. I've decided to offer you a single choice."

He pointed down a long hallway. The Critic turned to look at whatever he was pointing to. It was a door. It was the same front door to his house that he'd seen over a thousand times, and he knew where it led to: the outside. He just didn't know if it was the same outside it had been all the years of his life, or something utterly alien and mind-warping outside, something grand, something phenomenal.

"What's outside that door?" The Critic asked.

"Reality," The Writer replied.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **It's always fun watching a fictional character find out he's fictional. Actually, no. It's weird and existentially terrifying to have every paradigm you've ever constructed shattered all at once and piece together a new identity and purpose in life from scratch. Fictional characters in the real world would probably have to see a therapist for a solid half-decade or so to work out all their issues and get used to out lives, and even then it wouldn't be a guarantee that they wouldn't snap and delve back into fantasy entirely. Still, it makes for great entertainment, right?

I originally wondered why Doug was so implacably calm in this scene, considering he's got a facsimile of the Hole floating above his coffee table and is meeting his own creation in the flesh. I suppose you can chalk it up to his knowledge of The Critic as a character, and from that he would understand how The Critic's mind works, but to me it seemed like he knew a little more about their meeting than he let on...

-Xoanon


	53. Part 8, Chapter 52

**Chapter 52: Meanwhile…**

_I am accustomed to pay men back in their own coin._

—Otto von Bismarck

* * *

He felt. He felt what was happening in the world beyond this one. He heard The Critic's sorrow, his thoughts and feelings, and The Writer telling of his past, present and future, the totality of the character he had created. Then, he heard him give The Critic his choice. The choice with the outcome that he knew would destroy them all.

It was his time to act.

Ma-Ti's entire being turned a bright crimson, and the entirety of his inner sanctum turned red along with him save his eyes, which turned into lusterless black portals. Film Brain leapt back as the savage being fired a strange energy beam in his direction. The beam almost caught him in the leg, doing some damage to his jeans in the process. It was as if a razor had sliced through the fabric. Ma-Ti redoubled his efforts, sending beam after beam at the retreating Film Brain, driving him like a hunted man all around the void.

"What are you doing?" Film Brain cried over the bolts.

**_Tying up a loose plot thread, _**Ma-Ti replied. No one could know of the decision before it was too late. Film Brain had to be destroyed before he could warn his friends on the ship. **_Do me a favor, would you, and hold still..._**

He fired another beam. It caught Film Brain in the chest and he fell to the floor, shouting in pain. Ma-Ti advanced on him, another bolt at the ready. Film Brain managed to prop himself up on one arm, putting out a futile hand to defend himself.

"Ma-Ti… why… are you doing this?" he coughed. "What's the point in hurting The Critic? In hurting us? We've come to rescue you!"

**_Because I want you all to suffer, _**Ma-Ti replied coldly. **_Because I want everything to suffer, as I have suffered, and I want it all to happen by The Critic's hand. Nothing will stop me from achieving the resolution I desire. Nothing. Especially not something as feeble and worthless as you. _**

"You don't have to do this!" Film Brain said. "The Critic's changed, Ma-Ti! He cares about you!"

**_YOU CARED NOTHING FOR ME!_** Ma-Ti sent another bolt into Film Brain's shoulder. The energy burned. Film Brain screamed. **_You and your friends were the worst human beings I ever had to deal with in my life, always complaining and moaning about inconsequential garbage! And The Critic was the worst! I was a joke to him! A pansy! A pussy! _**With each shout, Ma-Ti sent another energy blast at Film Brain. They were the most excruciating things he'd ever felt, like bullets made of bee stings. Ma-Ti ignored his shouts of pain. He was too angry to care, too angry to think anymore.

**_You think I didn't know his disdain for me? You think I was a blind fool?! _**he snarled to the barely conscious Film Brain. **_Ignoring my advice in Kickassia, sending me on stupid missions during the search for the gauntlet! Goat porn? Really!? _**

He rounded on Film Brain just as he began to get to his feet again. His leather apparel had been completely demolished by the onslaught, his glasses fractured. He stood hunched over in front of the raging god, afraid for his life, terrified at what was about to happen next. Ma-Ti didn't finish him off, and instead his raging face twisted into a very wide smile.

**_Well, the shoe's on the other foot now, _**he hissed. **_I've sent The Critic on a mission of my own, an important one that doesn't involve bestiality! And it is this final mission that will be his last…_**

* * *

_ "You can't hide from me, Luke,"_ Darth Snob said to the shadows. _"It's not that big of a room…"_

Luke was silent. Darth Snob was on the other side of the throne room from him, mulling around some tubing by the wall. His holo-sword was deactivated. He couldn't let the green blade give him away. His mind was racing, struggling to come up with a solution to his predicament. There was no use in talking. The Snob had been completely taken over. He couldn't be willingly changed. But Luke knew he didn't want to fight—want to kill—his mentor. He never had. His anger had gotten the best of him earlier. The Snob was still his friend, no matter what pro-corporate bullshit was spewing from his mouth.

The Snob began to circle around The Executor's throne. _"Come out, Luke," _he said calmly. _ "Come out so we can settle this peacefully, like you wanted. I just want us to have a little discussion… before I jam this glowing sword into your face." _

"I will not fight you any longer," Luke said. He wasn't a ventriloquist, but the room's design made it sound like his voice was coming from everywhere. That was fortunate. Darth Snob sliced a nearby pylon in half. Part of the catwalk came tumbling down.

_"Were you under there?" _he asked hopefully. _"Ah shit, I really hope he doesn't take that out of my paycheck!"_

"Listen to yourself, worrying about nothing but money!" Luke said. "Can't you see what The Executor's done to you? You used to be Brad Jones, The Cinema Snob…"

_ "That name no longer has any meaning for me," _Darth Snob replied. _"You'd best follow my lead, and ditch it. There is no future for the critics, Luke, nothing left for us to rail against. The only thing left is failure, and infamy, and the money. With these things I can give you a greater purpose. Imagine what we could accomplish in the Hollywood system. Join me, and together, we can rule the world of film as total corporate sellouts." _

And then, Luke suddenly felt a presence in his head. He seized up. It was Darth Snob, probing the room for his consciousness. He tried to make his mind go blank, to shield his thoughts from the dark overlord, but it was too late. Darth Snob chuckled.

_"Yes… your thoughts betray you," _he said. _"You have concerns for your friends onboard the _Exit Strategy_, not to mention…"_

Luke hoped he wouldn't say it.

_"The Critic… So, you admire The Critic. Well, now your concerns have betrayed him too. If you will not turn to the Dark Side, then perhaps he will. Perhaps all your friends will. The more the merrier. And then your failure will be complete…" _

Luke's anger slowly began to rise. Such a vision was preposterous! There was no way his friends would ever turn to the Dark Side, would ever sell out. It was The Snob that sold out, The Snob that had compromised his ideals, and now he was blaming everyone else for not joining him in his sad little club for failures. A part of him tried to protest these thoughts, to regain self-control, but it was no use. He was just so angry…

_"I can see it now," _Darth Snob continued, inching closer to Luke's hiding place. _"A new empire of web-based studio productions, all of our shows retooled to hit every possible demographic, new characters added to attract the preteen market. We know every trick in the storytelling book, every twist and turn the Plot can take. And we'll use it to crank out video after shitty video for the masses. It'll be magnificent, Luke. Everyone'll hate us, everyone, but it won't matter. We'll make millions anyway. Once we have him on our side, we'll turn The Critic into the next Tommy Wiseau—" _

_ "NO!" _Luke leapt up from his hiding place on the floor behind the catwalk's entry ramp. He could take it no longer. He was out for blood now. Holo-sword activated, he sprinted at Darth Snob. If Luke could've seen his eyes, they would be as big as dates and filled with fear.

_"Oh shit!" _he said. He barely had enough time to block Luke's slashing at his face, or the dozen or so different maneuvers he tried after that. On the far side of the room, The Executor shuffled in, toilet paper trailing from beneath his robe, carrying a refilled Big Gulp and another bag of popcorn. He took note of the renewed battle with interest.

**_"Oh, you found him, great," _**he said to Darth Snob. **_"What stage of the battle are you guys at?" _**

_ "The part where he tries to kill me!" _Darth Snob shouted back. Luke kept coming at him, delivering blow after blow to his holo-sword. With each attack, the crystal mechanism inside grew hotter and hotter. He stumbled, tumbling over an ill-placed mesh covering onto the floor, Luke continuing to hammer him until finally the sword's mechanism cracked. The blade's handle snapped in two. Darth Snob dropped the blade, and Luke kicked it away from him into the corner, raising his own foil over the head of his helmeted foe. Darth Snob was defenseless. Luke had won. All he had to do now was deliver the killing stroke.

The Executor rose from his throne, and applauded. **_"Good, young Mochrie, good," _**he said. **_"This is better than _****Dancing with the Stars****_. Now, strike him down and take your rightful place at my side. You cannot escape it. It is your destiny…" _**

_"Wait, what?" _Darth Snob said, turning his head slightly._ "You're replacing me?" _

_**"Yep, that's right." **_

_"No way! This is definitely wrongful termination! There's nothing about 'dismissal by laser sword' in my contract!"_

_**"Oh come off it, I'm a dark overlord with total power and an army of zealots at his disposal. Are you really that surprised? I've gone through fourteen assistants besides you in the past month alone. But you—"**_

He pointed at Luke, panting for breath, and still holding his sword above the defeated Darth Snob. **_"You, Luke Mochrie, there's something special about you," _**he said. **_"I've got a good feeling about it. Then again, I had that same feeling about the Rodesian a couple cycles back… but I'm sure this time it isn't a fluke. You're going to be my number one guy…" _**

Luke looked down at his opponent. Although he was dressed all in black, one of his gloves had fallen off in the fight. Underneath that glove was a pasty white human hand. Somehow that was enough to restore to him his lost conscience. This wasn't the way of the Plot, and he knew it. You couldn't just wantonly kill people for no reason other than vengeance, unless you learned a tragic lesson about it at the end of the story, or if you wanted to make a statement about the pervasiveness of violence in human society. This wasn't the answer. If he truly wanted The Snob back, he had to show mercy now.

"You get my back, I'll get yours…" he said.

**_ "I'm sorry, was that a yes?" _**The Executor said. **_"If you said yes then legal's got some papers for you to sign—after you kill Darth Snob, of course. And then we'll have to think up your title. How do you feel about Darth Reginald?"_**

"I'm sorry, Executor." Luke deactivated his holo-sword and clipped it to his belt. "You've failed. I am a critic, an artist. Like my father before me."

**_"Your father was an improv comedian on Canadian television. Don't get a swelled head," _**The Executor replied.

"And _Who's Line is it Anyway?"_

**_"That's not exactly _****Citizen Kane****_, kid."_**

"Hey, that man did things with Richard Simmons that nobody else would do! And I'm just as brave!"

The Executor stepped toward Luke, a grimace on his face. **_"Really?"_** he said. **_"Well then, Luke Mochrie, son of Colin Mochrie who really isn't that big of a celebrity anyway, I suppose you must think yourself brave and fire-retardant enough to do battle with me?" _**

"Uh, sure…" Luke said, suddenly feeling a lot less brave. "Is this part of the ass-whooping you mentioned earlier?"

**_"Uh huh." _**

"And you're probably going to beat me like a red headed franchise installment?"

**_"Definitely."_**

"Well, I'm still going to take you on! What do you say to that?"

The Executor brought up his wizened hands. They were crackling with lightning.

**_"So be it, critic."_**

* * *

On the _Exit Strategy_, Paw, CR and JesuOtaku worked as fast as possible to get their blue shell online. Paw had opened the case to one of their red shells, and was probing its innards as CR and Jesu gave him commands. Or, to be more accurate, CR was giving Jesu commands and Jesu was responding to them as best she could.

"JO, which wire, red or blue?" CR asked.

"Um… red."

"Paw, go with blue. What angle on the sensor array?"

"90 degrees," Jesu replied with more conviction.

"45 degrees it is. And the setting on the maximum limit finder?"

"Positive twelve?"

"Negative twenty-one," CR ordered.

* * *

Terl was ecstatic, watching as the _Exit Strategy _was torn apart by his onslaught. Behind him there stood a recomposed and rather cross General Zod. He didn't care much what Zod did anymore; it was his show now. He saw the enemy ship's nacelles explode under the pressure, and in his glee he misquoted another set of lines from _The Merchant of Venice_._  
_

_"Pickle me, do I not bath?!" _he said._ "Prick me, do I not squee?!"_

Zod suddenly noticed an intruder alert on the screen. It had been shoved into a corner by all the space carnage. A body was wrenching its way in through the hangar bay door. He saw the face on it; the half-melted, barely recognizable as human face. It was Mechakara.

Zod almost shat his mighty Kryptonian trousers.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** It might seem a little sudden for Zod to be afraid of Mechakara just like that, but remember Terl's probably been talking with Zod about his capabilities for a few days now, and that most Kryptonians are fully aware of how bad androids can be when you piss them off. Brainiac used to be their AI, you know.

-Xoanon


	54. Part 8, Chapter 53

**Chapter 53: Critic's Choice**

_I will choose a path that's clear—_

_I will choose free will._

—Rush

* * *

"What do you mean 'reality'?" The Critic said.

"Out there is a world that has no structure. No plot, no characters, no themes, no story arcs or overriding message, no purpose," The Writer replied. "In the world I've helped create, I've given you purpose. That purpose is to be a clown, to make jokes, and to review bad movies. In this world, you have a reason to exist, a point in being, but out there…"

"I'll be free?" The Critic finished.

"You'll be the dealer of your own destiny," The Writer said. "In our world, there's no hints to who's out there writing the story. There's no author messing around with the characters or tinkering with the plot. Everyone's fate is unknown, stories can end anytime in unsatisfying or anticlimactic ways, and there's no greater meaning aside what you take away from it. It's not fantasy, not a tract or a dialogue or a novel. Just reality, the great mystery; the mystery I've decided to give to you to untangle."

"So you're willing to just let me go? Like that?" The Critic asked.

"If you think you're ready," The Writer replied.

"Won't it get a little weird with me running around? I look exactly like you."

"It doesn't matter. You're a spook in this world. You've got no Social Security or Medicare cards, no records, and no history. That means you can be whoever you want to be. It won't be easy to get yourself set up, but I'll help you through it as best I can if you want me to."

"Aren't I your meal ticket or something? If I leave, what'll happen to you and the site?"

The Writer chuckled. "The site's fine. And you aren't my only creation; Chester A. Bum, Ask That Guy, and all your other friends and enemies are still characters, and they'll still need me to guide them until they evolve beyond their stories too. Besides—" He tapped the side of his head. "I've still got a lot of good ideas brewing up in the old mental works. I'm sure I can cook up another well-rounded character, and maybe someday he'll come into his own and join you too. Anything's possible."

The Critic stood up. The rekindled spark of happiness inside him had grown into a roaring flame of bliss. He had finally made it to his own Shangri-La, a place without any cruel overlord or indignant malefactors destined to track him down and make him suffer. Here he wasn't a target, just a face in an endless sea of faces, each one striving to make a living as best they could. He could do whatever tickled his fancy; lose himself in the crowd and get a nine-to-five job, or become a hermit somewhere, or a drifter traveling the world. He wouldn't always be successful—he would stumble, and fall, and probably have a hard time getting back up again. He would get himself into more messes, but they would be his messes, not someone else's. They would be messes caused by accident, not by design.

And that was the biggest draw of them all. He wanted freedom. After years of being under an invisible thumb, he wanted the chance to write his own story, to go his own way and never look back. That was the purpose he'd been striving for: to have no purpose at all. To have the chance to just keep looking for whatever it was that would make him happy, or contented, or whatever other verb he could think of that meant "pleased". And now he finally had that chance. Deep down, a sad little voice told The Critic the negatives, that the search would take him the rest of his life, that he would never find anything worthwhile, that maybe his story would have a bad end. But The Critic also knew that whatever he managed to find would be his and his alone. That was almost a virtual guarantee.

Still…

He looked back at The Writer. He had said nothing else to The Critic, and was still seated on the couch with a warm smile. The Critic looked down at the computer in his lap. His friends were still inside the story, still fighting for their lives against Terl. What would happen to them if he just disappeared? Would they notice? Would they care? It didn't matter to him at this point what they thought of him, but even with his newfound liberation at hand, he couldn't stop himself from thinking about how he'd left them onboard the crippled _Exit Strategy_, with The Executor and his tyranny barreling down. He knew what the old him would've done. He would've scoffed, sprinted out the door and left them to rot, his black little heart knowing that they sorely deserved their fate.

So what would the new him do?

The Critic pointed to the laptop and the glowing pages on its screen. "The story," he said. "What happens in there? What happens to all the characters? My friends?"

The Writer's warm smile faded a little. He looked down at the pages, looked up, then shrugged. "Where does a dream go when you wake up?" he said. "What happens to something unreal when it can no longer sustain itself? It just… goes away."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you choose reality over fantasy, then the world I've created for you, and all the people in it, will disappear."

"Disappear?" The Critic said. "How? Their story's already been written! It's all there on the page! How can they disappear if you're the one writing them?"

"Everything in a story has purpose," The Writer replied. "If not, why would you write it? Every character, every background detail, every line, gag, reference, every single word serves a greater goal: to drive the plot to its conclusion. But if even one of those elements leaves, evolves beyond the story, then the story becomes meaningless. It's like a house of cards; you take one out, the whole thing falls apart. You're that card."

* * *

Sage wrenched open the door to medbay. "Film Brain!" he said. "Are you still in here? The warp engine short-circuited and Mickey got hit in the stomach with a sprocket! Do we have any more painkillers?"

Medbay was silent, aside from the gurgling heap on the floor. The slumbering Film Brain had been thrown from his chair by the ship's rocking. He was still inside Morpheus. The helmet, thankfully, was still in place.

Sage's eyes widened. "Dude!" he said, bending down to pick up his friend. "Film Brain, Film Brain! Wake up! You can't go inside Spoony's mind alone! It's too dangerous! Wake up!"

Film Brain didn't respond. He was breathing heavily, his eyes were shut tight, and he was biting his lip so hard it was bleeding. Something inside Spoony's head was hurting him. Sage turned to the Morpheus console. He couldn't shut it off—he didn't know how—but he did remember a little trick CR had told him. Morpheus had enough internal memory inside it to store multiple realms of consciousness inside it at once. It couldn't store whole brains, but with a little luck (and a lot of button mashing), maybe he could pluck out the dream realm being shared by Film Brain and Spoony and plunk it into the console, and from there use Spoony's helmet to enter it. A long shot, but it could work.

No. It _had _to work. Sage flipped off his derby, yanked the keyboard away from the Morpheus console and began to pound on its keys. "Don't worry, buddy," he said. "I'm coming."

* * *

Ma-Ti loomed over the wounded Film Brain. He was calmer now, but not by much. There were still angry red rivulets running all over his form. He was still listening to the conversation in the beyond with great relish.

**_It won't be long now, _**he said. **_Soon The Critic will make his choice, and I know what that choice will be. It will be the choice that destroys us all. His fame will die, as will we. We are but useless, one-note jokes, to be cast aside and forgotten... _**

"I don't believe you, Ma-Ti!" Film Brain spat. Blood was streaming from his mouth, a token from his crushed ribcage. "The Critic's changed! He won't abandon us for anything!"

**_You lie! _**The red glowing bands flared up all over Ma-Ti's form again. **_There's no room for change in The Critic's heart! There isn't even room for a fucking heart! The Critic is cold, heartless, _****sin corazón****_! Just like his ass-munching friends! _**

"You don't think I understand you?" Film Brain coughed. "You don't think I understand what it's like to be the lackey, to be the butt of everyone's jokes? I'm British, for God's sake! Our only contributions to culture are comedic cross-dressing and spotted dick!"

**_Yeah, that stuff's nasty._**

"But I've changed! I've grown as a person, I've mellowed out a little, and the others accept me as an equal! I've seen the good in The Critic too! He's not an egomaniacal douche anymore; he misses you and he's sorry for what he did! People can change, Ma-Ti… People can…" The wounds Ma-Ti had inflicted were taking their toll. Film Brain's kneeling form began to droop to the dark floor. Ma-Ti, sensing it was time to end his little audience, walked over to the fetal positioned Briton and put out a glowing hand.

**_Yes, Film Brain, people can change… _**he said.**_ Just like you will change, from living to dead._** His hand began to shine with a final bolt of white hot energy. Film Brain closed his eyes. He wasn't sure if dying in this dream meant dying for real, but he was damn sure this was going to hurt a lot.

Just then:

_"KANEDAAAAAAAAAAAA!" _

Ma-Ti looked up. The strange void in which he and Film Brain had done battle was gone, replaced with what looked like a sports arena. At its far end stood a pudgy looking guy in a red cape and white undershirt with spiky black hair. He was pointing at Ma-Ti, his eyes wide and mouth open in a snarl. It was Sage.

**_What the—? _**

"Sage? Is that… you?" Film Brain said.

"Damn straight!" Sage replied. "And I've come to kick Ma-Ti's scrawny ethereal ass! My psychic powers can't do shit in the real world, but in here, it's a whole 'nother story!"

**_Foolish cape wearing dolt! _**Ma-Ti shouted.**_ You are no match for my power! I control the Plot! I am invincible! _**

"Oh really?" Sage said, stepping closer. "Care to wager that claim?"

**_Bring it on, Dragonball Z!_**

"I'm Tetsuo, damn it!" Sage said. "But if you want Son Goku, I'll be happy to oblige! _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!_"

A yellow aura suddenly sprung up around sage. Ma-Ti, unprepared, was thrown back by its force. Sage continued screaming as the stadium floor around him began to undulate. Cracks appeared in the concrete, and small pieces began to lift themselves into the air. The floating chunks jetted toward Ma-Ti. They pelting him relentlessly, and he loosed blast after blast to stop them, but couldn't. A mighty tide of debris swept over him, drowning him. Film Brain staggered to his feet as the stadium came to pieces around him. Sage continued screaming, his aura fading as the debris resettled. Ma-Ti was now buried under several tons of rubble.

"Invincible my psychic butt," Sage said.

* * *

The Executor's first shocks hit Luke, and he fell to his knees. The pain was immense, but he didn't cry out, not even when the aftershocks trembled all over his body. The dark lord of the shitheads approached him slowly, hands still buzzing with electric power.

**_"If you will not be turned, then you will be destroyed," _**The Executor said. He unleashed another onslaught of bolts. Luke's body jumped a half-meter into the air. Darth Snob rose, stepping over to his master in half-relief. **_"Young fool… only now, at the end do you understand. You cannot fight what we have bought. You cannot protest what we have silenced!" _**

More shocks came. Luke's spasms grew worse. The pain finally found its way to his vocal cords, and he began to scream. **_"You will pay the price for your lack of vision—our_****_vision, one vision to rule them all, and none other!" _**The onslaught of shocks suddenly ceased. Luke turned his head briefly to look at The Executor.

**_"Ah! Made you look!" _**The shocking resumed. The Executor got creative with how he was flinging his bolts, sending the forking patterns to their target in figure eight patterns and loop de loops.

"Cinema Snob, help me!" Luke cried, his smoking bathrobe about to catch fire. Darth Snob looked at him, then at The Executor shooting lightning from his pointer fingers like they were six guns, then back to Luke again. He could only look on as his former mentee suffered. Actually, there were several other things he could do, but he didn't really feel like doing them at the moment. The kid had tried to kill him, after all. As he watched, The Executor stopped his cavalcade long enough to deliver the _coup de grâce_ of his lecture.

**_"Now, young Mochrie," _**he said. **_"You will die." _**

The Executor went all out, shocking Luke with ten different bolts of lightning at once, one from each fingertip. His laughter turned into even stranger, gurgling vocalizations as the energy flowed through him like a very fine wine. Darth Snob continued to ponder his choices as he watched Luke wriggle around on the floor like a glowworm that had been fed acid:

_The Executor did leave me for dead, _he thought, _but then again, he does have a damn good dental plan… Aw, but Luke was such a great mentee though; always did what I told him without sass. Sure, he tried to kill me… Ah, what the hell. I can always try the solo evil overlord thing later if this doesn't fly. Here goes nothing—_

_"NOOOOOOOO!" _Darth Snob leapt at The Executor, wrapping his arms around the dark lord's waist. The Executor was unmoved, as he was still a pretty bulky guy, melted face or no.

**_"What the hell are you doing?" _**he asked.

_"Defeating you!" _Darth Snob tried to lift The Executor above his head so he could be thrown down a nearby shaft leading to the Death Bomb's core. He still wouldn't budge.

**_"Knock it off. Dude, I said knock it off!" _**The Executor said.**_ "This is really embarrassing for you… You can't lift me even if you tried; you're like five foot nothing! I'm going to shock you if you don't stop!" _**

_"You know something? You're right,"_ Darth Snob replied. Just as The Executor tried to shock him, he turned toward a conveniently placed mirror on the wall in the corner. As The Executor fired, the bolts traveled toward the mirror, bounded off it, and zipped back to meet their source. Darth Snob sidestepped the blast, and The Executor was blown clean across the room into a wall panel, putting an immense dent in it. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Darth Snob bent down and helped the ailing Luke to his feet.

"Darth… I mean, Cinema Snob, you saved me," he said.

_"Darn right I did. Come on, kid." _The Snob peeled off his helmet, revealing a sweaty, blotchy face stained red in a few places, like a carpet that had had fruit punch spilled on it. "Let's get out of here. I was wrong. Some films are worth fighting for."

* * *

**Author's** **Notes:** Lots of rash action going on here. Good thing choices in fictionland don't have consequences. OR DO THEY?

-Xoanon


	55. Part 8, Chapter 54

**Chapter 54: Revenge of the Nerd**

_A house divided against itself cannot stand._

—Abraham Lincoln

* * *

_"FIRE! DEATH! BURN! BLEED!"_ Zod ignored Terl's insane proclamations spewing from the loudspeakers as he sped down the ship's main corridor. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the remote control for his starship. It was already rocketing across the Solar System at top speed. Within three minutes, it would be here, ready to take him as far as possible from the oncoming bloodbath. Had Terl noticed his departure, he would have chided the Kryptonian for his cowardice. That was regrettably true; he was running away, but he had a damn good reason for it. Let Terl meet his maker on his own terms. He still had plenty of breathing left to do. Now if only he could make it to the hangar before—

An arm reached out from a nearby room to grasp Zod by the throat. That arm was attached to Mechakara. The robot stepped out from the doorway. Behind him, Zod could see the mulched corpses of at least five ensigns. He gurgled fruitlessly, trying to bargain with the creature—it was Terl who tricked you! Murder Terl!—but Mechakara wouldn't have listened at any rate. He began to march with Zod toward the bridge. There was another minnow he still needed to catch.

* * *

_"ALL THE WORLD'S A PAGE, AND THE MEN AND WOMEN MERELY SLAYERS!" _Terl had somehow climbed up onto the ceiling fan, and was swinging from it like a big gaudy kindergartener. He failed to notice as Zod came rocketing into the room, scattering ensigns left and right. Mechakara followed shortly afterward, slaughtering anything left standing with quick slashes from his mechanical limbs.

_"ALL YOUR SKITTLES NOW HAVE MELTED, CRITIC! SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A PUNNER'S BRAY?!"_ Terl barely missed kicking Mechakara in the head as he picked up the half-conscious Zod and began slamming his head into the couch. _"YOU GOTTA KNOW WHEN TO HOLD 'EM, KNOW WHEN TO FOLD 'EM, KNOW WHEN TO WALK AWAY, AND KNOW WHEN TO DIE! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"_

* * *

"We're almost done, JO! What's next?" CR asked.

"Insert tab A into slot B!"

"Slot A into tab B!" CR told Paw. He contacted Phelous on the bridge. "Phelous, how's the ship holding up!"

"Hell if I know!" Phelous replied, battle fatigue having knocked the italics right out of him. "Mickey, fill CR in! Are we dead yet?"

"Shields are collapsing, more hull breaches on decks two and three!" Mickey reported from the steaming remains of his console. "One more hit and this ship's sunk!"

"Terrific! Anybody else have any bright ideas?"

At that moment, a familiar voice came in over the communications frequency: "Oh, I do." The entire crew immediately stopped screaming and being thrown about, and even Terl's continued onslaught seemed to diminish. Phelous turned on the viewscreen. It was a very lucky coincidence that the only remaining working camera was on the ship's right side, because that was where Linkara's ship was cruising into the battle.

It dwarfed the _Exit Strategy _by about a single order of magnitude, a block of iceberg-like metal carved into a flagship that had once struck terror into a countless number of worlds in an empire of universes. All over it there shined the lights of countless sensors and relays, technology beyond the scope of anything on Earth, weapons with grand power that were more than a match for anything in Terl's arsenal. Near the v-shaped bridge, a new call sign had been etched into the gigantic sidebar spanning its length: _COMICRON-ONE_. The crew cheered as the ship sailed by and began to position itself between themselves and Terl. They were safe. The cavalry had come.

"Another bright idea!" Phelous marveled, chin in hand. "How do I do it?"

* * *

On _Comicron-One_'s bridge, Linkara, still in Starfleet uniform, gave NIMUE her battle orders. "NIMUE, raise the force wall, clear the neutron blasters for firing and charge the forward lance. It's time to give this Psychlown psycho something else to shoot at."

_{Affirmative.} _All over the ship, various sub-systems and drivers carried out NIMUE's commands. Energy was redirected into the twenty or so blasters lining the front of the ship, shields were charged to their highest levels, and the most important subsystems were safeguarded thrice over. The forward lance began to glow a bright green. _Comicron-One_ was about to enter its first ship to ship battle, and with him at the helm, Linkara thought, it was going to win. Onscreen, Terl's house-ship turned toward him, forward cannons ready to fire. Linkara hit the switch, and the forward lance's built up charge was unleashed in a single continuous beam of energy. It hit Terl's shield dead on. The crackling sphere of energy buckled slightly under the strain.

_{Direct hit. Target is still operational,}_ NIMUE announced.

"First shot, my dear NIMUE," Linkara replied. "There's plenty more where that came from…"

* * *

_"Ah! So the game's a-_Footloose_, eh?" _Terl said, watching the new ship charge up another shot from its front-most energy stick. _"Well, no matter! No human starship is a match for the might of Ferdinand von Terl! Return the volley! Prepare to fire!" _

"Uh, sir?" said a nervous ensign hiding behind the firing console. "There's a homicidal android on board, and he's killing everyone he gets his hands on. Maybe we should deal with him fi—AAAAAGH!" The rest of the ensign's sentence was lost as Mechakara dragged him from behind the console, tearing his spine out in the process. Terl was undaunted.

_"Impudent underling! I'll have you court-martialed after this!" _he said, taking up post at the firing console himself. Ignoring the rampaging robot behind him, he aimed squarely at the bulk of _Comicron-One_. _"For bait's sake, I spit my bass at thee!"_ he cried, pulling the trigger. The shot rocketed away from the side cannon and hit _Comicron-One_ on its starboard side. Atmosphere began to leak from the ship. Another direct hit.

_"Cry halibut, and let slip the cods of war!" _Terl laughed. He failed to notice that Mechakara had dispensed with the entirety of the bridge crew, and was now coming up behind him, reaching out with blood suffused leather glove to grasp his throat.

* * *

"Sir! Linkara's been hit!" Marzgurl told Phelous on the _Exit Strategy_'s bridge.

"Better him than us!" Phelous replied. "Can you take another one, big guy?"

"Not many more of that magnitude!"Linkara replied over the communicator. "The bastard got a lucky shot off on my teramine capacitor! I'm disabled until NIMUE can get it back online!"

"CR, where's that damn miracle torpedo?!" Phelous bellowed. From engineering came CR's response: "We're ready! She's being loaded into bay three now!"

"Terrific!" Phelous brought up the only remaining piece of equipment on the ship that worked, which was the manual firing system. It was a bulbous, mutated periscope thing made out of several dozen components that grew out of the center of the ceiling, knocking wooden beams and crewmembers aside. He stepped up to its instruments, the microwave's control panel and a bunch of alarm clocks taped together to provide latitude and longitude meters, punching in a random set of numbers and setting the clocks to the corresponding digits. The three ancient lawnmower motors that powered the device began to scream. Phelous failed to be dissuaded by their din as he knelt in front of it, eyes locked firmly at Terl's ship on the viewscreen. The wounded _Exit Strategy_ had listed onto one side, giving him a perfect view of the killing shot to come.

"Smile, you son of a Psychlown sucker," he said, grinning feverishly.

* * *

It had all been his, everything—The Critic's defeat, the death of his pitiful ship and his friends, the enslavement of Earth, the ruling of the galaxy. Victory had been within his grasp, so sweet and bountiful, like a ripened strawberry-melon ready to be plucked from its vine-tree. And now he was going to die at the hands of some worthless robotic palooka, red eyes shining like death rubies in his face and cold metal hands around his neck. It wasn't fair! It just wasn't fair! He'd done everything right, duped and played the tin bastard like a sucker, forced him to turn tail and run away! This wasn't how things were supposed to go! He was supposed to be victorious at last, not killed off like some minor player in a shitty adaptation of _Hamlet_! This was outrageous! No, no, this was okay; really, it was only another minor setback. He was Ferdinand von Terl! Nothing could defeat him! He'd find some way out of this, somehow…

Mechakara was standing over Terl. He had Terl's head in both his hands and was squeezing tight, like Terl's noggin was a basketball he could slam dunk hard enough to shatter into little orange and black pieces. Around him lay a dozen slaughtered bodies bleeding a rainbow of colors, and General Zod, who had been shoved into the corner by a metallic shin to his groin. He was cowering—honest to Rao _cowering_—at the psychotic robot that had swept aside the ship's defenders, and at the prospect of being de-lived when the robot completed his primary objective of turning Terl into a pile of quivering mush.

The android looked directly into Terl's eyes. **[Remember me, Terl?] **he said icily.** ["Metal moron", I believe, was your description-on. I hope you understand this was your greatest blunder—greater than every blunder you've made so far. You underestima-ated me, insulted me, thought of me as nothing but a cheap wind-up toy. Well, now that I fiiiiinally have a grip on your porous skull, I intend to make sure you pay dearly for those insults, and every other indignity I suffered under your idiotic plan, during the last few seconds of your miserable, worthless existence.]**

He began to squeeze Terl's head. The powerful servos in his hands were damaged, but still had enough functionality to squash his onetime boss's head into dimwit jelly. Terl gasped, fighting the urge to scream and beg for mercy in spite of the growing pressure. The only pressure in his mind at the moment was his desire not to use the trump card he'd stored away for an occasion like this. He wouldn't rely on that super-douche for anything, not after all he'd done to ruin his moment of triumph! Besides, he could find a way out by himself. All he needed was a little more time. Just a little more—

Something in Terl's skull cracked. His vision went wobbly; blood began to stream out of his nose. Mechakara began to grin, grin wider and wider and wider his eyes turned bright red and he was laughing oh holy crap he's really going to kill me Terl thought.

_"Zod!" _he screamed,_ "Zod, get your massive Kryptonian butt up and help me!" _

**"I see no reason to interfere, and believe it's best if you two work this out amongst yourselves," **Zod replied fearfully.

_"You have superpowers, you idiot! Your kind get energy from yellow G-type stars, right?"_

**"Well, actually…"**

_"So kill him! Burn the rest of his face off with your heat vision! Smash him into bits with your super strength! Deconstruct his ass with your super speed! For the love of Mammon, do something! I'm dying over here!" _

** "I have a confession to make…"**

_ "What are you waiting for, man!? He's busting my head like a grape!"_

** "I don't actually have superpowers at the moment."**

_ "WHAT!? WHY!?"_

** "It's a formality! The Executor doesn't want his battlefield generals to be walking one man armies because it makes the other soldiers feel inadequate! I've been taking red solar radiation baths every week since well before I came on board! Even if you threw me into the Sun my cells wouldn't be able to absorb enough energy in time before I melted!" **

_ "YOU TOLD ME YOU HAD SUPERPOWERS! YOU LIED TO ME!" _

** "I said I could get my superpowers back if I filled out the requisite form! You misheard me!"**

_ "OH HOLY PISS CRAP ASS DAMN IT FUCK SHIT FUCK!" _Terl's stream of expletives became more and more strangled as Mechakara continued to squeeze his head even tighter. His mind was in an even more agonizing state. An implosion of vanity was taking place. His trump card was gone, his glory gone, his victory gone. Everything was gone. All that remained was oblivion at the hands of a glorified tin toy. How degrading! How inglorious!

**[I know how you meatbags love your idiotic pop cul-ulture references,] **Mechakara said,** [so permit me to quote something a little more aaaapropos than your disjointed babblings: Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.]**

_ "That's a good one," _Terl squeaked. Mechakara squeezed even harder.

* * *

_ "Fire…"_

At Phelous's whispered command, the blue shell sped from bay three on a mission from God. Its sparkling aura, powered by the glow from its tritium-beryllium core and its payload, a mixture of thermite and helium-3, cut through space like a comet's tail. It covered the distance between the two ships in seconds, zigzagging past the enemy auto-defense systems and smashing through the laser shield. On the bridge, Terl, Zod and Mechakara, distracted by a sudden panorama of blaring alarms, turned to watch as the missile arced across the viewscreen. All at once, their mouths dropped open and their eyes widened as it came straight for them. On its distended nose, written in letters large enough to see from thirty meters off, was the message:

CR, PAW AND JESU'S BLUE SHELL – COMIN' RIGHT AT YA!

**"Come on," **Zod said.** "Let's hear it." **

_"You know,"_ Terl replied. _"For once, I got nothing. Sucks to be us."_

The missile streaked into the foyer and detonated.

* * *

The _Exit Strategy_ had won the battle. Its crew watched in silent awe as Terl's house-ship, once so extravagant and so proud, exploded. Its walls shattered, its décor crumbled, its weapons broke into pieces and floated off into nothing. It began to dip low, engines shuddering to failure, its trajectory changed by the force of the missile to coincide with the orbit of the Death Bomb, and sucked in by the immense gravitational pull it began to enter the non-atmosphere of the moon station. It looked like it was going to impact with…

* * *

In the throne room, The Executor regained consciousness. He looked woozily around at the debris in front of him, wondering where his traitorous lackey and bathrobe boy had gotten off to. He withdrew a communicator from his pocket. If they hadn't been shot dead by security on their way out, someone's ass was getting fired after being roasted by hand lightning.

_**"General Zod, come in," **_he said.

** "Yoo hoo?" **Zod replied.

**_ "We've had a security breach on the Death Bomb! Get down here immediately!"_**

**"Don't think that'll be a problem, actually. Turn around."**

The Executor turned around. The entire glass wall of his throne room was filled with Terl's house-ship. It was close for him to see Zod, Terl and some android he'd never seen before inside it. The android looked like he was screaming in rage. Terl was also screaming, most likely in fear. Zod wasn't screaming. He was cringing, and smiling rather innocently, as if he wanted to say "Hey, you asked me to get down here immediately, so here I am."

**_ "Oh, it's just as my fortune cookie predicted,"_** The Executor said.

The ship collided with the Death Bomb's throne room. A massive mushroom cloud big enough to be seen from orbit erupted on its surface. In the midst of the awe, Linkara beamed onto the _Exit Strategy_'s bridge, standing triumphantly with arms akimbo in the hopes of making a big entrance. No one was paying attention. At the same time, Luke and The Snob beamed back as well. The Snob saw the explosion on the screen and grinned.

"Boy, did I bet on the right horse!" he said, giving Luke the largest hug he'd ever given in his life.

"Hey, what's this?" Sad Panda said. He was holding a small, hand molded controller in his hand. It had been discarded long ago. No one remembered what it did. He pressed its big red button, and it began to beep.

* * *

In the throne room, Terl, Zod and Mechakara sprang out of the rubble. Terl and Zod were singed, bruised and battered, but otherwise fine. Mechakara had suffered the most abuse. The majority of his disguise was now in tatters, his coat and shirt ripped open to reveal a robotic chest plate and his left eyeball now flailing around on a cord.

_"Ha! It'll take more'nat to stop me!" _Terl mumbled.

**[W-where is The Executor?] **Mechakara asked.

**"There…" **Zod replied, pointing to a black smudge lodged under the remnants of a stone gargoyle. **"And there… and there… And a little on the ceiling…"**

Suddenly, there was a loud beeping noise. All three of them looked toward the source. It was coming from Mechakara, from behind his chest plate. It was the thermo-detonator lodged in his stomach. It was activating.

_ {This is Edward's Super Fun Thermo-Detonator of Dooooom!}_ A loud and overwhelmingly perky voice said from inside Mechakara. _{In exactly fifteen seconds, the payload of super-explodium will detonate, destroying everything within a hundred and seventy-three kilometer radius! Please put your hands and arms in the air and scream as loud as possible! Enjoy!} _

Mechakara, his face filled with fear for the first and only time, raised his head.

**[To be…] **

The beeping grew more rapid.

** "Or not…" **

The beeping grew into a single tone.

_"TO BEEEEEE!"_

_{This has been Edward's Super Fun Thermo-Detonator of Doom! Have a nice trip to Hell, ya bastards!}_

_ "Th_**ank**_**you."**_

The rest was flames and warmth.

* * *

It took the Death Bomb approximately thirty seconds to collapse in on itself. The entire structure was gutted as the detonation's force spread from the throne room down into the reactor. From there, it was irreversible. One by one, the millions upon millions of lights that glowed across the station went dark, never to be relit. Large chunks of the plated surface of the station began to fall into the space beneath carved out by the explosion of JO's device, until finally the entire structure imploded over the hyper-powered crystal core, incinerating itself in a single puff of smoke. The Death Bomb was no more.

"Eh. Whatever it is, it's not mine," Sad Panda said, tossing the control away. The rest of the crew, the spell of awe broken, began to cheer. The Second Battle of Europa-space was finally over.

The real battle hadn't even started yet.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** A glorious end to three glorious villains. The most dramatic death possible is always the best death in any good story. It doesn't even have to be a big explosion-filled one, just dramatic.

-Xoanon


	56. Part 8, Chapter 55

**Chapter 55: Climax**

_Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for; it is a thing to be achieved._

—William Jennings Bryan

* * *

The Writer set his laptop aside and folded his hands neatly in his lap. "It's up to you, Critic," he said. "You can have either the real world of endless possibilities, the great mystery, or a world where you know you belong, where you know you have meaning and purpose. The choice is yours. I leave it entirely in your hands."

The Critic was still standing in the middle of the living room. Very slowly, he turned from The Writer to the door that led to reality. He stood there looking at it. If he went outside, his friends, his enemies, his whole former world would disappear, leaving nothing in its place besides whatever The Writer chose to salvage from the rubble. If he went back, he would have a purpose: the job he'd once held back on his Earth, reviewing bad movies and TV shows until the end of time. Not a glamorous career, but at least he'd know what he was dealing with from now on. There was no third option available. Either the unknown or the ignoble awaited him, and whichever path he chose would seal his destiny forever. He shut his eyes and thought harder than he ever had before in his life about everything he'd experienced, everything that he'd been told, everything he'd ever wanted out of his existence.

And then he made his choice.

The Critic opened his eyes. He started to walk toward the door. The Writer silently watched him leave, offering no further advice, making no move to stop him. His smile was long gone by this point, replaced with a cold, pensive stare. He hadn't expected The Critic to make the choice so readily. There would be repercussions. He put his fingers on the laptop's keyboard and began to type. What would he do with the others? He didn't know. He was running out of ideas, and there wasn't much time left for him to think…

* * *

Inside the dream arena, Sage hefted Film Brain onto his meaty shoulder. "Come on, pal," he said. "Let's get out of here before—"

**_Impudent fool! _**A sudden streak of energy shot toward the two. Sage leapt into the air, taking Film Brain with him as the energy impacted the stadium floor and tore another giant hole in it. Ma-Ti rose from his pile of rubble, still glowing bright red, with some additions. There were white and orange streaks all up and down his body now. **_It doesn't matter what you do to me!_** He shouted.**_ You're too late! The Critic has made his choice! He will leave us, just as I always knew he would! _**

"He's better than that, Ma-Ti!" Film Brain shouted as he and Sage landed on the nearby podium. "The Critic's not a selfish prat anymore! He's—"

**_I know, I know, he's chaaaaanged! _**Ma-Ti mocked. **_You're like a broken record! Save me your tired lecture! I know the truth!_**

"You're not as all-knowing as you think, Ma-Ti!" Sage said. "I used to think The Critic was just acting nice to us because of the Hole screwing with everything. But I've just realized something: you hate The Critic! You hate him more than any of us do, so why would you use your powers to make him act nicer to us? If anything, you'd make him even worse than he was before!"

Ma-Ti launched another blast at Sage to silence him. Sage dodged it easily, leaping to the nearby seating. He set Film Brain down in one of the plastic chairs before continuing with his verbal assault.

"Film Brain's right, Ma-Ti, The Critic has changed!" he shouted. "He was a real leader to us this time! He cared about us, he thought up his own plan, and he led us into battle! The only people who hate us and want us dead are Terl and The Executor!"

**_Lies, all lies! _**Ma-Ti unleashed a torrent of shots at Sage. A few of them came dangerously close to connecting, tearing at his cape and singing the hairs on his arms and legs. Sage managed to dodge them, and dropped back to the stadium floor.

"And where does that leave you?" he asked. "Where does that leave Ma-Ti, the little Planeteer with godlike powers and the ability to do anything he wants? Why couldn't you just get your revenge on all of us without all this space opera crap getting in the way? Why couldn't you just turn The Executor into a dark-robed toilet, or all his ships into giant baguettes? Answer me that, Ma-Ti? Was it because the plot had to flow? Was it your sacred duty?"

**_SHUT UP! _**

"Or maybe it was because you just wanted to send us on one of the same meandering goose chases we used to send you on! You just wanted to torture us like we tortured you! So that's where we end, with the bullied becoming the bully! How does that make you better than us? How does that make you the victim when you decided to victimize us, when you attacked us, put our lives at risk? That doesn't make you some poor, shivering victim; that just makes you a jerk who's out for revenge, and who's willing to put anything and anyone it can in harm's way just to satisfy that goal! The Critic's not the unlikeable asshole here, Ma-Ti, _you_ are!"

With a final inarticulate scream of rage, Ma-Ti clapped his hands together. A massive wall of energy spread out from him, demolishing everything in its path. Sage was caught up in its wake, the explosion hurtling him to the far end of the stadium. Film Brain watched as a glowing cocoon appeared around Ma-Ti. He began to turn from red to orange to bright yellow to blistering white. His body twisted into an elongated parody, his arms and legs branching out to become gigantic tree limbs, his torso ballooning out, his head swelling into an infantine light bulb with enormous eyes. His scream became louder and louder, reverberating endlessly.

"And I thought Sage was supposed to be the grotesque blob guy," Film Brain said to himself as the Ma-Ti creature loomed above him. In the distance he could make out Sage. He had been thrown into a metal pylon and was now lying on the ground, unconscious. The stadium floor finally gave way under the new Ma-Ti creature's girth, sending debris toppling into the crater below. Its scream ended, and it began to speak in a booming, psychically transferred voice, one that Film Brain would remember for the rest of his life:

**_I. AM. MA-TI. _**It said. **_I AM ALL-KNOWING. I AM THE HOLE. I WILL NOT BE DENIED MY RESOLUTION. THE CRITIC WILL BE THE DEATH OF US. THE END OF ALL THINGS IS COMING. YOUR PITIFUL DECLARATIONS OF CHANGE AND DEVELOPMENT ARE UNFOUNDED. THE CRITIC IS COLD. HEARTLESS. UNCHANGED. THIS IS THE JUDGMENT. THIS IS THE END OF THE STORY. THIS IS THE PLOT. _**

* * *

He was walking down the hall. The door was in front of him. He had one hand already outstretched, waiting to grasp its lever, waiting to open the door and for him to step outside, into the world, into a new reality of endless possibilities, into a new life. He was ecstatic, lightheaded, on the verge of a total hysterical breakdown. It wouldn't be the first he'd had in his life, but it was the first he would actually enjoy. His mind was a total blank. All the apprehensions and objections of the past had been forgotten, replaced by a single mantra, a single coda that looped around him, embraced him and made him feel truly whole: He was free. He was free. He was free.

He stepped up to the door. It was the same door that was in his house. It was his door, but somehow not his door at the same time. The glass panel in it was bigger. The lock on it had changed from a deadbolt to a pin and chain. This was not the same door. This was a new door, one that led to a new outside, a new reality. When he went outside, today would not be the same day it had been in his world. It would be something much more.

Slowly, his outstretched hand reached for the lever. His fingers curled around it and pushed downward. The lock clicked. The door came open silently. The light streamed in. It was blinding. He covered his face with his other hand. The door was open now. The outside beckoned.

He stepped onto the threshold. In front of him, he could vaguely make out a small porch. Beyond that was the walkway connected to the driveway and the street. This he remembered. His eyes adjusted to the new level of light, and he took his hand away from his face. The world beyond came into view. His eyes widened and his mouth slowly dropped open. Reality wasn't just the great mystery, he thought. It was also fucking gorgeous.

Everything looked like it was rendered in high definition. The dazzling sun shined down on the impossibly green leaves of the stately oak trees ringing almost every home in the neighborhood. The sky above was a vibrant blue, with clouds whiter than the whitest white rapper to ever live hanging in it. The shadows on the ground were crisp, cool, almost like painted outlines. Beyond sheer graphics, this world was still far sweeter than anything he'd ever experienced before. The wind on his face felt fresher, the birdsong in his ears was more in tune, the grass smelled grassier. His perception had been taken one step beyond. It was at 12 now. It was going to stay there for the rest of his days.

He turned around. The lightheaded trance he'd been in had finally broken, and he was back to his usual excitable self. There was something wet on his cheeks—was he crying? He couldn't tell. It didn't matter anyway. Even the stoniest, most heartless bastard alive would've bawled like a baby if they'd seen what he'd just seen. He bent down and lifted up his pant leg to see he was dreaming. The tracking anklet the police had put there was gone. This was all real. He pinched himself, just to make sure. He wasn't taking any chances. Nothing happened. He smiled.

He stood up and turned back to the door. The outside was just the same as it had been, still waiting for him, inviting him, daring him to come and join the party. What would he do first, he wondered—find a new identity? Get a real job? Go to the park and frolic in the sun for hours on end? He didn't know. He was so overwhelmed he really didn't know. But he knew he had a good chunk of time left to figure it all out.

"I'm The Nostalgia Critic," he said quietly. "I remembered it so you wouldn't have to."

Very carefully, he lifted one leg into the air and swung it out onto the porch.

* * *

**_AND HERE… WE… GO._**

* * *

The Critic held his leg upright for a few moments, like a can-can dancer frozen in time, or like he was testing the air. His euphoria, though still vibrant, was now fading. The smile on his face gave way to a restrained consternation. Thoughts came back into vogue, the biggest of them being this: what _would_ The Writer do with the others?

Well, that was easy. He had said…

Come to think of it, he hadn't explained anything about what would happen to them. Aside from his collaborators, the special was his to write. He could do whatever he pleased with the characters that were still under his sway. What would he do with them? What would become of them? Would they still have their own lives after he disappeared from their presence? That was also something he didn't know. His only guess was what he'd been told would happen: _if even one of those elements leaves, evolves beyond the story, then the story becomes meaningless. It's like a house of cards; you take one out, the whole thing falls apart. You're that card. _

_ You're that card. _

Well, so what? That was his problem? Was he supposed to be the caretaker for his former friends and enemies just because he was the only well-rounded character in the bunch? How the hell was that fair? He was free! He was Pinocchio about to become a real boy! He could go his own way, make his own destiny! He didn't have to worry about them anymore! It wasn't his fault that they weren't developed enough to get out of that shit box and into the real world! Chester A. Bum? Ask That Guy? Ma-Ti? Who needed em? And furthermore…

…

And furthermore…

…

And…

…

Ma-Ti.

He put his leg back down on the threshold.

He'd never apologized to Ma-Ti. The one thing he had originally set out to do he hadn't done. Ma-Ti had been a true blue trooper, a true friend, and he'd done nothing but treat him like dirt. And now, just because he had a shot at his own destiny, his own freedom, he was just going to leave his old friend to rot in some mystical cosmic butthole forever? Hell no! What kind of character development was that? He had to go back. More importantly, he _wanted _to go back. If his absence meant the end of everything, that Ma-Ti's character would be forever and truly gone, never to return, then all his so-called "character development" didn't amount to anything but a tiny-ass hill of beans.

The Critic took one last look at the outside.

"Ah… it's probably just as phony anyway," he sighed, before stepping back inside and shutting the door forever.

* * *

**Author's** **Notes:** Adding a bit to Ma-Ti's motivations here really shows how far The Critic has come. The Critic is now willing to sacrifice his own happiness to do what's right, even if it hurts him. He might try to rationalize it with sour grapes, but it's still a selfless act. Ma-Ti, on the other hand, has become more of a manipulator than The Critic ever was, masterminding the entire Plot to get The Critic to get into the real world and destroy the entire TGWTG-universe in the process just so he can have revenge on the people who hurt him.

-Xoanon


	57. Part 8, Chapter 56

**Chapter 56: Apologia**

_A man's friendships are one of the best measures of his worth._

—Charles Darwin

* * *

**_ WHAT. WHAT? WHAT!? _**

The Ma-Ti creature's gigantic eyes widened. He saw The Critic walking away from the door, from his master stroke. The annihilation of the entire universe was melting away before his eyes. He saw him walk back into the room where The Writer was sitting. How could this be? The Critic was pure evil! Malevolent! He was supposed to leap out the door and sprint merrily away into "reality", never to return, leaving them to perish at the hands of the incompetent dolt pulling their strings! He began to writhe, bloated being swaying from side to side and bashing against the already damaged walls of the arena.

**_IT'S IMPOSSIBLE! _**He screamed. **_IT SIMPLY IS IMPOSSIBLE!_**

Film Brain watched Ma-Ti's outburst from afar, still badly wounded. As his ravings intensified the concrete platform underneath the seats started to fracture. Film Brain got up, limping away onto the nearby stairs just as the platform started to fracture. His mind raced as he made his way up the stairs to the second level. He had to get to Sage before Ma-Ti turned his rage on either of them, or did something to collapse the dream arena and leave them stranded inside Morpheus forever. He prayed silently for a distraction, for anything that would keep the crazed Star Brat from mashing them into a gooey pulp for just a few minutes. Mercifully, there came one in the form of The Critic's booming, echoing voice streaming into the ether out of nowhere:

**_Ma-Ti?_** He said. **_I know you're in there and I know you can hear me. It's been a long time, and you've changed a whole lot, what with your Plot Jesus powers and all, but I'm guessing you're probably still you, and you're angry about what happened. So I just wanted to tell you… I'm sorry._**

Ma-Ti stopped his paroxysm long enough to digest The Critic's words. Even with his immense power, and godlike faculty that could anticipate every possible thought or action at one time, he still couldn't believe what he was hearing. The Critic had come back for an entirely unselfish reason? The Critic had come back… for him? Why? What did he care for his oldest punching bag? What pity did he possibly feel for his unwashed slave boy, his lackey? The jerk had no reason to make amends. He was gone from this universe. He had gotten everything he wanted. He was free. So why had he come back now?

**_I'm sorry. I'm incredibly, ungodly, impossibly sorry. Sorry for what I did to you, for the way I treated you, for everything, _**The Critic continued.**_ I should've treated you with… I dunno, more respect or something, like a real person instead of some errand boy that I could order around. Like a friend. But I didn't. That was wrong and dickish of me. I know that I've made a lot of mistakes in the past—_**

**_NO SHIT._**

**_—but hurting you was the biggest one. And I know you want closure just like I want closure. You want me to say to you, honestly and earnestly, that I know I've those mistakes and that I was wrong. So here it comes: I never should've ignored your advice in Kickassia. I never should've ignored you when you tried to help us find Malachite's Hand, or sent you on those errands, or done the goat porn thing, or called your heart power sissy, or laughed at your hobby of collecting Russian nesting dolls. And I definitely never should've had Tom launch you into space in a can of Quaker Oats. It was all my fault, Ma-Ti. I admit it. So come on, let's close this fucker and get you out of Spoony's head. What do you say? _**

"See, Ma-Ti?" came another voice with its source just above Film Brain's head. Film Brain looked up to see Sage floating above him, his psychic powers restored, his cape and hairdo slightly worse for the wear. "The Critic came back because he cares about you. People _can_ change. You can change too. You can make your own choice to leave Spoony's head and be at peace."

Ma-Ti didn't know what to do. Inside his godlike brain there tumbled a million conflicting emotions and thoughts, all of them mostly opposed to the idea of someone like The Critic actually doing something benevolent for once in his wretched life, and as they tumbled on he sat there in the middle of the arena, slowly debating what his response would be. Film Brain and Sage waited for his reply, hoping that it wouldn't be to destroy them completely out of hand.

**_IT WAS COLD, CRITIC… _**he said at last. His voice was calmer, weaker somehow in tone if not in volume. **_THE TIME I SPENT IN SPACE… I FELT SO COLD. COLD AND ALONE. I DIDN'T KNOW WHERE I WAS OR WHAT I WAS DOING. IT WAS A VOID I WAS TRAPPED IN FOR A YEAR. IT FELT LIKE FOREVER. WHY DID YOU DO THAT TO ME? WHY?_**

**I didn't know, Ma-Ti, **The Critic replied. **Swear to God I didn't. **

**_THE OTHERS COULD'VE HELPED ME; MY FRIENDS, THE CAPTAIN, GAIA. YOU COULD'VE FOUND THEM. BUT YOU DIDN'T. WHY? _**

**I was too lazy and in shock, **The Critic admitted. **It's probably what I should've done, but I just got too wrapped up in my own grief to even think about it. Forging your will was also a big dick move. I'm sorry for that too. But you did want to be cremated, didn't you? I got that right at least? **

**_KIND OF. YOU DIDN'T DO A VERY GOOD JOB._**

**Todd offered his… services. Blame him.**

**_HOW DO I KNOW YOU'RE TELLING THE TRUTH? _**Ma-Ti asked. **_HOW CAN I BE SURE THIS ISN'T ALL AN ACT TO SAVE YOUR CRONIES? YOUR OWN CONSCIENCE? HOW CAN I KNOW YOU'RE REALLY SORRY? _**

**You know me, Ma-Ti. Would I ever try and help anybody else? **

**_NO._**

**Would I ever try to save anybody if I didn't absolutely have to? **

Ma-Ti thought for a moment. **_NO… _**

** And if I'm out here, then that means I'm not a part of your universe anymore. If I truly didn't care what happens, would I have any real self-interest tied up in coming back at all at this point? **

**_NO. _**

** So there you go, that's the truth. I came back because I wanted to settle this with you, Ma-Ti. I came back because I really cared enough to want to apologize. Sage is right. I guess I have changed. Not by much, but it's enough to give me a good kick in the ass for all the crap I've done. **

**_THAT TIME IN SPACE… I WAS SO COLD… SO ANGRY…_**

"There's nothing left to hold on to, Ma-Ti," Film Brain said. "Let it go."

**You didn't die in vain, little buddy, **The Critic added. **You saved all of us from Malachite. You saved the world. And we all remember you for it. We all remember.**

**_ALL I EVER WANTED WAS TO BE USEFUL…_**

**You can be useful, Ma-Ti. You ****_have_**** been useful. You broke up the brawl, tried to stop me from going nuts, and saved us all from Malachite. You did good, Ma-Ti. You did good. Just see it…**

Film Brain and Sage's eyes widened as the Ma-Ti creature turned toward them. He looked far less menacing than he had before, far sadder. His eyes blinked once, twice, then shut for good. He was making its decision. It was a very painful one, but it had to be made.

**_YOU'RE RIGHT, CRITIC, _**he said. **_YOU… AND YOUR FRIENDS ARE RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING. IT'S TIME FOR ME TO LEAVE. FORGIVE ME…_**

"Already done," Sage and Film Brain said at once.

The Ma-Ti in the center of the arena began to collapse in on himself. The ballooned body gave way to folds of otherworldly matter as it shrunk back to its original size, color fading from yellow to orange to red and back down to a cool blue. But it didn't stop there. Ma-Ti began to shrivel up, the hues turning from blue to purple to a sickly lavender color. Film Brain and Sage watched as he shrank, as his colors became weaker and less vibrant. Finally, a white hot dwarf, barely visible from the stadium seats, was sitting on the arena floor. It rose into the air silently. There was a barely audible sigh, then complete silence.

And then, like a star fading into the distance, it was gone.

"Is he…?" Film Brain asked.

Sage nodded. "I can't sense his presence anymore," he replied.

The arena began to dissipate. Morpheus, its processor taxed to the limit by the battle that had taken place within it, had booted the two remaining invaders back into Spoony's mind, to the shrouded mental realm where Ma-Ti had first appeared. The mist was gone. The stars were gone. The Spoony image was gone. All these things had been replaced by an inky blackness that was creepy, but at the same time tranquil. Sage and Film Brain stood there for a while in contemplative silence. Film Brain coughed a wet cough.

"You okay?" Sage asked, already knowing the answer. His injuries would require medical attention in the real world.

"I've been better," Film Brain replied, cupping his chest with one hand.

"Well, I guess that's it, then. Now… how do we get out of here?"

"You don't know?"

"CR told me how to induce it. All you have to do is… ah…"

"You forgot it, didn't you?"

"Of course not! I'm just… having trouble remembering it…"

Film Brain smiled weakly. "Maybe we should've asked Ma-Ti to stay a bit longer, eh?"

Sage laughed. "Yeah, probably."

* * *

The Critic watched as the Hole facsimile in front of him began to change. The view of the Ma-Ti thing, Sage, and Film Brain in the miniature arena disappeared. It was replaced by an image of Ma-Ti himself. He looked different. His skin color was back to its normal tan, as were his clothes, and instead of the Hole insignia, a green Planeteer globe was emblazoned on the front of his blue shirt. He was also smiling.

"See you around, ass-muncher," he said.

"See you around," The Critic replied. Ma-Ti closed his eyes. Then he disappeared.

"Well, that's that," The Writer said. He was typing on his computer as he spoke. "Ma-Ti is officially written out of the story. He's gone."

The Critic turned to The Writer. "Will he ever come back again? His character, I mean?" he asked.

"It's unlikely, not unless Barghav wants to come back to work with us anytime soon."

"Who?"

"It's complicated. So, I suppose you'll be on your merry way, then?"

"I…" The Critic suddenly heard a rumbling sound put an end to his ruminating. He turned back to The Hole. It was glowing violently. Inside it, he could see Film Brain and Sage briefly before the view darkened and he lost them completely. It began to tremble, its tendrils losing their shape and starting to warp, overlapping onto each other in the process. The Writer's eyes widened. This wasn't supposed to happen. Something was wrong.

* * *

The jubilation on the _Exit Strategy _turned to confusion, then to trepidation, as the entire world suddenly gained a sickly blue tinge. A rumbling filled the ears of everyone in attendance. It was like two giant Coke bottles being scraped together. Phelous turned on the viewscreen. Again, by sheer coincidence, the ship had drifted into the perfect position to provide its crew with a clear picture of what was happening out in space. It wasn't good. The Hole had gotten even bigger. It was no longer orbiting Europa. Europa was orbiting it, and every so often bits of it broke off and were sucked into the Hole's nexus, never to return. The trepidation the crew had felt dissolved into full on fear.

"Well crap," Phelous said. "I'm out of ideas at this point."

* * *

The Critic watched the Hole's seizing with alarm. "What's happening?" he asked The Writer. "What did Ma-Ti leaving do to the Hole?"

"Ah, well…" The Writer began slowly. "Now that your friend's character is at peace, there's no guiding force left inside the plot hole to keep it stable, no brain. It'll eventually grow too big to control, devolving into a world shattering mindless hunger that'll eat the entire universe for lunch if you and your friends can't stop it in time. It's kinda terrifying. You sure you don't want any Rumba Mix?"

"Okay, can I give you a little constructive criticism?"

"Shoot."

"Your story sucks."

"You suck!"

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Ma-Ti, Ma-Ti, how great was he? Critic doesn't feel guilty...

Anymore. Now he's free, and so's Ma-Ti. Hope your eyes haven't got teary.

-Xoanon


	58. Part 8, Chapter 57

**Chapter 57: A Rabid Expansion**

_Growth for the sake of growth is a cancerous madness._

—Edward Abbey

* * *

Film Brain and Sage both woke up. Medbay was dark, and blue-tinted. Spoony was still where they'd left him earlier. The two unstrapped themselves from their helmets and set them aside.

"Ha! See? I told you that would work!" Sage said.

"Just don't bring it up to anybody else," Film Brain replied. "I get enough flak for being the youngest guy on the site as it is." He struggled to lift himself out of his chair, but couldn't. The fight with Ma-Ti had left him exhausted. Sage walked over and helped him up, putting an arm over his shoulders, dragging him out of medbay and down the hall.

The first thing they saw as they came onto the bridge was Phelous shouting orders from the captain's chair. "JewWario, get us out of here! Maximum warp or full throttle or whatever!" he said.

"I can't! Our fuel's depleted and we're out of mushroom caps!" JewWario replied.

"Hang on," Linkara said, getting out a communicator. "I can beam everybody over to _Comicron-One_. NIMUE, what's the status on the teleporter?"

_ {I—iiinformation: energy disruptions from the anomaly are interfering with shipboard systems. Teleportation is impossible at this time. Recalibra-ar-ating to 4.57 GHz frequency to—stop—introoo—} _

"NIMUE? Come in, NIMUE!"

_{Sold for fifteen seventy-five, sixty, sixty-three. This is your big test. Bananas are an impeccable source of grains. Is your refrigerator running? Hello, sweetie.} _

"NIMUE!" Linkara frantically smacked his communicator. "NIMUE, do you read me? Come in!" There was nothing else after that. NIMUE and _Comicron-One_ were gone.

"It's getting bigger!" Marzgurl said, watching the screen in horror.

"It's unstable," Sage replied, and everyone turned to face him and Film Brain. "That's why it's growing. Ma-Ti's gone. That means the Hole's got nothing inside it to keep its energy focused. Without that, it'll just keep getting larger and larger until it eats everything."

"How do you know that?" Paw asked.

Sage shrugged. "Lucky guess?"

"So that means… we're not gonna make it, are we?" Mickey said.

The crew watched as _Comicron-One, _engines deactivated,began to drift toward the ever-widening gyre of the Hole. Yep, that seemed pretty likely, they all thought.

* * *

"What do we do?" The Critic asked.

"I'm just as lost as you are! That's why it's a plot hole!" The Writer replied, just as panicked. "I only left it in because I thought I could you'd be able to do something to control it at the end of the story! If you can't think of something all your friends are doomed!"

"You're the writer! Tell me what to do!"

"You're the character! Tell me what to tell you what to do!"

"There has to be some way to stop this thing! Help me!"

**_Well you know what they say, Critic, _**said yet another voice from nowhere. **_If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. _**

The Critic turned to the corner as someone materialized there. It was the grey helmet-wearing guy, the one that had saved his bacon on Europa and in space. The Writer, somewhat relieved that the pressure had been briefly taken off him, sat back to let his creation and the newcomer hash it out.

"Who are you?" The Critic said.

**_ Your caretaker, _**the helmeted man replied. **_The Writer asked for my help in gettin' you safely from Earth to the Hole. Apparently, he figured you and your friends would need all the extra help you could get to avoid being blasted into space crap. He's the one who gave me the kickass suit and spaceship in the first place. _**

The Critic turned to The Writer, frowning. "Why couldn't you give me an awesome suit and ship?" he asked.

"I did!" The Writer replied.

"Oh yeah," The Critic said. "But, who are you really?"

_**Someone familiar… **_The spaceman reached up and took the helmet from his head. A furrowed Jerseyian face came into view, with brown hair swept over the top of the forehead and steely brown eyes that seemed to say "Yeah, I've got brown eyes. So what? Doesn't mean you're not full of shit too, ya asshole." It was the Angry Video Game Nerd, The Critic's longtime enemy, sometime friend, often-times friendly but other-times unfriendly enemy. The Critic stared at this new development in placid acceptance.

"That's right," he said proudly, smiling. "It was me the whole time."

"Oh," The Critic replied.

The Nerd's smile disappeared instantly. "Oh? What do you mean 'oh'? That's all you gotta say?"

"Well come on, everybody reading this thing probably has it figured it out by this point. I mean, who else could it be?"

"Anybody!" The Nerd gestured to his helmet. "This fuckin' thing's face concealing! It coulda been somebody totally unexpected, like LordKat!"

"Oh please, in that outfit?"

"Suede? Handsome Tom?"

"They had their cameos earlier!"

The Nerd thought for a minute. "That Malachite guy?"

"He's black! You're not wearing any gloves, so we can see the color of your hands is clearly white!"

The Nerd sighed. "All right, smartass, you figured out the mystery of the big grey space weirdo. Now how're you gonna fix this mess with the Hole?"

The Critic also thought for a minute. "Okay, that I don't know," he admitted.

"Yeah, well, good luck with that." The Nerd moved to put his helmet back on again. "I'm headin' for Alpha Centauri. I hear they have some wicked keggers goin' on there."

"Wait, wait!" The Critic pleaded. The Nerd stopped for a moment. "Can you at least give me some pointers?"

"Well, it's like Nana Nerd always said. If you can't shrink it…"

The Critic thought long and hard about that relatively unhelpful bit of advice. What the hell was The Nerd thinking? He was supposed to shrink it! It was his job to make sure it stayed shrunk! If he let it get out of control, it would just keep getting bigger until it swallowed up his friends, Earth, everything in the universe! Why would he ever want to do something as idiotically counterproductive as—?

"That's it!" he said suddenly. "That's the answer!"

"Glad I could help," The Nerd replied. "Can I go to Alpha Centauri now?"

"Not yet. Do you have a radio on you?"

"Yeah."

"What's its range?"

"Whatever I want it to be," The Writer chimed in, fingers back at the keyboard. "I've still got control over that much."

"Can you get me a line to Earth?"

"On it." The Nerd flipped open a panel on his arm and began pressing random buttons. "Who do you need to call?"

The Critic smiled. "A friend of mine…"

* * *

Nash Bozard, of Radio Dead Air, hadn't been outside in two weeks. That wasn't by choice. Things hadn't been going very well for… just about everybody on the planet lately, so he'd decided it would be much safer for him if he hid in his house doing his usual broadcasts until everything outside stopped being so crazy, and made of gelatin. Thankfully, he was well stocked with provisions. There were still enough Hot Pockets and beer in the freezer, and barring any catastrophic electrical failures he could expect to keep running on generator power for the next three months or so. That, coupled with the hundred plus cans of "Strange Away" he'd bought earlier, meant things were looking up for him. Still, in spite of all the crazy survivalist crap he'd read on the internet, he hadn't planned for anything close to what was to occur that afternoon.

"And if any of you are still alive out there in the wasteland, the stately analog clock on the wall tells me it's almost time for our daily call-in segment," he said into his mike. "Do I hear any calls coming in? I should. Because it's kind of depressing being here alone…"

The phone rang. Nash picked it up. "Operator—I mean, Nash ready to assist you," he said.

"Nash, is that you?"

"Nostalgia Critic?"

"Yeah, it's me. I need you to transmit something."

"Okay, sure. What is it?"

"A message. I need you to send out a message in a broadcast to the entire universe."

"I'm… pretty sure that's impossible."

"You should be able to do it. I'm with the guy who's writing you… It's complicated. You've got super radio broadcasting equipment now; it's totally legit."

"Really? How powerful?"

"I dunno, like forty bazillion gigahertz or something? Just use it!"

"Well, I could…" Nash replied. "But I was just about to put a Hot Pocket in the microwave, and that kind of fucks with the transmitter. So if you could just wait about three minutes—"

"There's no time, man! The fate of existence is at stake!"

"Okay, if it's the fate of existence we're talking about, I'll definitely need a Hot Pocket. I can't save everything that is, was, or ever will be on an empty stomach."

The Critic sighed. "Okay, two and a half minutes."

"Two minutes, fifty seconds."

"Deal."

Nash put down the phone and turned to his radio console. He frowned. It looked the same as it ever had. Somehow, he expected super radio broadcasting equipment to be more… awesome. Like with a sleek, ivory tower looking casing or something. Oh well. If The Critic said the fate of the entire cosmos was at stake, who was he to argue about it? He'd seen weirder crap in his life, which was a given, considering he ran a show called _What the Fuck is Wrong with You_ that cataloged all the crazy bullshit humanity had to offer. This was just another example of that crazy bullshit. He got up and started toward the fridge.

It was the best Hot Pocket of his life, he decided later.

* * *

Three minutes and forty seconds later, Nash was ready. The Nerd handed his radio transmitter to The Critic, and as he brought the small black device to his lips, he was still unsure of what he was about to say. But he was also certain that it would be the greatest thing ever said by anyone ever. He opened his mouth and began to speak…

* * *

The Hole filled the viewscreen. The grinding noise was deafening now, like a bunch of dump trucks being smashed together by humungous, unseen four-year-olds. The crew could only watch as they drifted closer and closer to it. _Comicron-One_ was already approaching its point of no return, its surface warping and buckling, transmuting into Swiss cheese before being stripped away entirely by the Hole's swirling energy bands. Linkara groaned and covered his eyes. He'd spent ages buffing out the asteroid dents on the paneling.

Suddenly, the great grinding noise was replaced with an even louder grinding noise that sounded like someone smacking a microphone into the ground repeatedly. The crew covered their ears. Shortly after that, the whistling groan was replaced with a human voice:

**_Sorry… um, hello? Is everybody listening?_**

"Is that…" Mickey said.

"Critic?" Phelous said.

**_ It doesn't matter, I'm going anyway. People of Earth! People of the universe! Critics, malcontents, nitpickers and other academics of all sorts! Shut the fuck up and listen for a few minutes! I'm The Nostalgia Critic, and I have something important to tell you. There's a hole in the fabric of reality—a plot hole. It's getting bigger, and if we don't stop it, it'll turn everything we know and hold dear upside down! Complete and utter chaos will ensue! So to keep that from happening, I'm here to tell you that there's only one way to stop this thing once and for all: we have to make it bigger. _**

_"WHAT!?"_ everyone said simultaneously.

**_You heard me, _**The Critic continued.**_ I know that seems a little counterproductive, but it's the truth! The Hole feeds on inconsistencies and mistakes! So I need everybody out there to start pointing out every one of those little mistakes right now! Every inaccuracy, every discrepancy, every little thing that has never made sense to you in your entire life! It can come from anywhere—books, movies, comics, video games, thoughts, opinions, mysteries, arguments, political rhetoric, logic—it's all fuel for the Hole! Shout it! Shout it as loud as you can! Trust me, it's the only way!_**

The Critic's broadcast ended, and for the first time, the entire sentient population of the universe was completely silent and in deep thought about what "The Nostalgia Critic", whoever he was, had just said. He was right about one thing: it _did_ seem counterproductive to make this Hole any larger than it already was. That was the main thing that kept them from doing as The Critic asked, that and their innate fear of being turned upside down whenever the Hole decided to get around to swallowing them up. Perhaps if they just kept silent, and didn't move, and didn't think about anything, then maybe the Hole would somehow starve itself and go away on its own. If nothing happened, they reasoned, then how could mistakes be made? But the problem with this approach was that it would take a very long time, and aside from the Zolfatrians of Zolfat-5, no one else in the universe could possibly wait long enough for the Hole to dissipate on its own. So they were at an impasse. What were they to do?

It was Linkara who spoke first.

"In _Cry for Justice_, why did the Justice League put Prometheus' helmet back on?" he said. "That's the source of all his power! Putting it back on would be like giving him a Get out of Jail Free card!"

"Why is it when Kevin Baugh was hitting us with his sword back in Kickassia he would always pop out from behind the shed?" Phelous added.

"How can some music fans deride older bands for being overplayed and stale, yet at the same time deride younger bands for trying anything new?" Todd asked.  
"Why do some people enjoy dubbing over subbing?" Marzgurl chimed in.

"Is 'The Christmas Shoes' really the worst song out there, or just the worst I've ever heard?" The Chick thought out loud.

"What the fuck is up with Hyrule's timeline in the _Zelda_ games?" JewWario wondered.

And so it went.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I've noticed Jokerman's comments about doing novelizations of Demo Reel or _The Review Must Go On. _I'll admit I've thought about doing one for _The Review Must Go On_, but I'm just not that invested in TGWTG like I used to be and don't think I could give it my all like I have with the others. So, sorry to say, it's not going to happen.

Part of the reason why you won't be seeing any other novelizations from me is because I want to start working with my own stories. I've been doing these novelizations for three years now, and even though I still like them, I've been wanting to branch out and do my own stuff rather than shoehorning my thoughts and concepts into somebody else's story and parroting someone else's lines. Rest assured, I haven't been going through the motions with _To Boldly Flee_; it was a joy to write and I consider it some of my best work. But even so it's still a copy of Doug's work, and if I'm just taking someone else's story idea and putting my thumbprint on it than it really isn't mine to begin with. I know that seems paradoxical for a guy who writes fanfiction, but to me it seems like I could be doing a lot more with my own story ideas than I am now, and that's why I started writing fanfics in the first place.

After _To Boldly Flee_ is finished, I'll be going on hiatus this summer. Look for some new material sometime this fall. Thanks again to everyone reading for your support and praise.

-Xoanon


	59. Part 8, Chapter 58

**Chapter 58: Last of the Summer Whine**

_The unexamined life is not worth living._

—Socrates

* * *

Across the galaxy, across the universe, everyone started questioning everything. They questioned their lives, their traditional notions of what it was to truly live, what it meant to be happy, of what things like love, honor, duty, good and evil actually meant. From those questions they asked even more questions about what their place in the universe was, what their duty was to others, what traditions were worth keeping and what things were worth changing. They questioned things they'd read in books and magazines, in films and on televisions, perceived in mind-links and projecting thought machines. Whatever the questions, no matter how important or inconsequential they were, they were asked. The Hole listened to all of them, and it slowly grew.

In every randomness-torn city on Earth, in every mutated suburb, the people were talking, thinking, meta-thinking, and thinking some more, the air filled with the sounds and shouts and burbles and oozing of everyday lives and the absurdities in them. A few people wondered whether it really was appropriate for the government to take more money from them in order to help the impoverished. A few more people questioned how the government could possibly keep functioning if it was already trillions of dollars in debt from overspending. Everyone had an opinion, and everyone joined in the great debate.

"In the _Silent Hill_ movie, what is up with that underground coal fire?" Dena asked.

"Oh my god, in _Spider Man 3_ when the butler comes out of nowhere and tells James Franco the Green Goblin killed himself by accident, it makes absolutely no sense! He gets like one minute of screen time to reveal a plot detail and then disappear!" The Blockbuster Buster shouted. "I just had to get that off my chest because it's so fucking stupid!"

"That wasn't a ghost in _Three Men and a Baby_ at all!" Mike J. shouted, pointing his cup at the wall. "It was a cardboard cutout!"

"Mr. Miyagi says the crane kick is some ultimate technique, but Daniel was always getting squashed in the second movie. Was he just lying?" Y Ruler of Time said.

"In _Dragon Wars_, the armies during of the big fight scenes in the middle of the film…" Smarty began. He never finished his thought, because _Dragon Wars _was an ungodly terrible movie.

"Why the hell is it called American 'football' if the players primarily use their hands?" MegaGWolf said.

"I believe in Santa Christ!" said Bjork, who was dressed in a pair of fairy wings. "Wait…"

"Why did CR say he could only beam out two people at a time during the battle when he clearly beamed out all three members of the away team in the next scene?" Chester A. Bum wondered. None of the passersby knew what he was talking about, so they ignored him as he huddled down inside the luxury cardboard apartment that had sprung into being one day around him. The raging storm of critiques, analyses and disputations continued on as everyone everywhere poured out their quibbles, frustrations, puzzlements and paradoxes in a rapid stream of inconsequentiality, feeding the Hole and making it grow ever larger.

Soon, a tiny diamond of light appeared in the daytime sky above the Earth…

* * *

That diamond of light was much more terrifying up close. The Hole had grown to swallow both _Comicron-One_ and Europa entirely. Its tendrils were now reaching toward Jupiter, whose gaseous cloud layers were beginning to transmute into a greenish pudding. The crew of the _Exit Strategy_ stood unified on the bridge, and watched as they too began to float towards their final fate, as the maw of the Hole approached them with agonizing slowness. The ship would be drawn into its singularity, its infinite power mutating them into something unseemly along the way, and then it was off into the unknown. Where would the Hole lead them? The other side of the universe? Another dimension? Perhaps a weird version of Hell like in that black hole movie? In the end, it was impossible for them to know where they would end up. And there wasn't much time left to figure it out.

"I… guess this is it," JesuOtaku said. She'd changed back into her regular outfit, and was hugging the stuffed bunny rabbit she'd brought with her tightly.

"Hey Cinema Snob," Luke said suddenly. "Remember your first review?"

"'Course I do, kid," The Snob replied. "_Burial Ground: Nights of Terror_. Worst piece of shit I'd ever seen up to that point."

"Mine was _Equilibrium_," Film Brain said, wincing.

"That was sure smart," Sage laughed.

"The fans hated it."

"I liked it," The Snob said.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Those two episodes of _Full Circle_ were my first videos," Paw said.

"'Down' by Jason Derulo was mine," Todd said. "Still can't remember anything but the chorus."

"_The Last Unicorn_…" Marzgurl sighed.

"_Pocahontas_…" The Chick added.

"I don't even remember my first review," Angry Joe said, staring off into space. "All I remember is that I was really angry and loving every minute of it."

"Hey Oan," Linkara said. "Remember your _Man Who Fell to Earth _review? That was brilliant, man."

"Thanks," OanCitizen replied. "Your _Alone in the Dark_ with Critic and Spoony was good too."

"That was a great crossover," Obscuras Lupa said.

"And so was this," Mickey agreed.

Not everyone spoke, but everyone there remembered. Not just their first videos for the site, but all their work pulling things apart and analyzing them, critiquing things done wrong or wrongheaded things, and it made them sad that it was all about to come to an end. But the warm feeling they got from remembering what they'd done—all those reviews, all the crossovers and cameo appearances, the specials, the conventions, the mishaps, all the madness and chaos in life—they overpowered the sadness, replacing it with something else, with the happiness at what had been instead of the despair at what wouldn't, with a sense of pride and accomplishment at everything they'd done.

A sense of nostalgia.

It was the best feeling they could've asked for, in the end.

"For the Bothans," Phelous said.

"For the Bothans," everyone replied.

The _Exit Strategy_'s bow began to dip silently into the Hole. It righted itself from its lopsided position, nose pointing directly into the center of the vortex. From the viewscreen, it looked like they were on a log flume ride into the Primum Mobile, the stars of white and blue and purple swirling all around and branching off into space. No one knew how the ship's ventral cameras had managed to start working again. No one really cared. It was a quibble none of them wanted to contest at the moment.

Luke and The Snob bumped fists. Paw, Joe, CR and JesuOtaku all hugged each other. JewWario took off his yellow cap. Eight Bit Mickey closed his teary eyes.

Todd and Obscuras Lupa joined hands.

The Exit Strategy entered the Hole. Its energy struck the ship head on, painting the bridge and underside a bright teal. More and more siding began to peel off like Fruit Roll-Ups (some of it actually was Fruit Roll-Ups by this point), and the remaining nacelle turned into a giant nail clipper. The body of the ship began to break into three pieces, the first floor going first, then the downstairs and basement, and finally the roof and second floor in one large chunk. The chunk plowed into the vortex head on, the first floor flipping on its axis and ramming into one of the spiral arms. The basement struck the singularity dead center, the Hole's energy field shattering the entire front of the bridge, but it was okay. The crew inside wasn't alive enough in the traditional sense to feel any real pain from the impact.

* * *

The Critic and The Nerd watched them go on Hole projection in The Writer's living room. The Critic saw the ship break up, slam into the Hole, and disappear. It was a knife in the chest to see it happen, to know that they'd trusted him completely even though he had no idea what he was doing. He had saved his friends, but at what cost?

"My God," The Critic said. "What have I done?"

"What you had to do, Critic," The Nerd replied. "What you always do: turn death, into another chance to blow shit up."

The Critic turned to him. "Well," he said, "I guess this is it."

The Nerd nodded solemnly. "I guess it is."

"Say, I've been wondering. Where did you get that device of yours?"

"What?"

"The device that allowed you to mess with CR and JesuOtaku."

"Oh." The Nerd smirked. "Stole it from Dr. Insano."

"Of course," The Critic said. "Guess he was good for something in the end. He really needs to get mad scientist's insurance."

"Who else would we get our wonderful toys from if he did?" The Nerd replied.

The Critic extended a hand. The Nerd took it. They shook.

"See you on the other side, man," The Critic said.

"It's been nice workin' with you, Critic," The Nerd replied. He let go of The Critic's hand and placed his helmet back on his head.

"Gort, Klaatu Barada Nikto."

**_I knew you knew the original line. Fuckin' nerd._**

The Angry Video Game Nerd disappeared, leaving The Critic and The Writer alone once again. The Critic turned to his lookalike.

"Okay, crisis with the Hole solved," The Writer said, standing up. "So I guess you'll be leaving now? I mean, you're still not planning on going back, are you?"

"Nope," The Critic replied, smiling as he stepped into the center of the living room. "I think I've found something much better that I can do with my time right here."

"Alright, so I'll see you around, I guess. You know where the door is…"

"I'm not going to live in your reality."

"What? So you are going back?"

"Not exactly. I'm still taking you up on your offer, just not in the way you think." The Critic pointed at the Hole. "You said it yourself. Somebody needs to keep the Hole stable, somebody has to merge with it so they can control its power and keep it from hurting people. That somebody's me. I'm the one card in this universe that keeps the whole house upright. That means I can't let this thing hurt anybody else, or my friends, just because I found a way out. They still need me, and I still want to help them."

"Sounds kind of risky. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Got any other ideas on how to resolve this thing?"

The Writer thought for a moment, and then shrugged. "Okay sure," he said. "Whatever floats your boat, man."

"Okay. See you later." The Critic turned toward the Hole and raised his fist. _"I AM A MAN!"_

"Wait, what are you doi—?"

The Critic's fist struck the Hole dead center. Immediately, the strange space oddity disappeared, turning into a bluish-silver goop that melted onto The Critic's arm. The Writer watched in admiration as some unseen force lifted his greatest character bodily into the air. The goop spread over The Critic's limbs and across his torso, down his legs and over his feet, until he was covered in what looked like a full body, glitter spackled tuxedo. He closed his eyes. In his ears he could hear the siren song of the Hole calling him to his destiny, calling him home: _Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet. Deet, deet-deet…_

He opened his eyes.

His eyeballs were gone, replaced with a blazing white.

Then he was gone too. The Hole disappeared with him. All that was left of the two was an echoing thunderclap that faded as it reverberated into nothing. The Writer let out a long sigh, and sat back down on the couch, pulling his laptop toward him. He had a story to finish, and he hoped he could do what he'd just seen justice in the few pages he had left to write.

"Good luck, Critic," he said, "and Godspeed."

* * *

Fed by the nonillions of thoughts in the universe, the Hole grew ever larger. Soon, it was big enough to gobble up Jupiter entirely, the once mighty planet disappearing into its ever widening gullet. From there, it grew to encompass the rest of Jupiter's orbit, absorbing the rest of its many moons, the Trojan asteroids, and everything else unlucky enough to come across it. By then, it was bright enough to be a second star in Earth's sky. It grew until its outer tendrils breached the inner solar system, eating its way through the Asteroid Belt, Mars and up to the Moon. For a brief moment, the Moon actually became cheese as it disappeared into the whitish blue haze. The sky itself was engulfed. The world became dark. Earth was lost inside the Hole's wake, all the chaos from its strange emissions absorbed back into its nexus.

The Hole grew even larger. It took bites from the Sun that turned into animal crackers on their way in. The Solar System became part of a miniature galaxy of error. Its tendrils began to sweep out on the solar wind into the Milky Way, where they wrapped themselves around other unlucky stars and began to feed. Alpha Centauri went, followed by Barnard's Star, then a whole bunch more in the same area. The galaxy collapsed, the Hole taking its place. The same process repeated countless times as it continued growing, taking over every galaxy in the universe, and every universe outside that universe as well, until all the space everything had once been in was filled, until it was the only thing left, and space grew dark and cold, until—

**_Okay, big guy. That's enough._**

The Hole stopped growing.

**_Wow, that easy? Cool. Okay, first things first: Let there be dénouement—_**

* * *

**Author's Notes: **One last time.

O.O

-Xoanon


	60. Part 8, Chapter 59

Then—

**Chapter 59: The Dénouement**

_God is not the author of all things, but of good only._

—Plato

* * *

He heard bells.

He didn't know what bells were, or where they were coming from, but he wanted to find them. He was alone, in the dark, and couldn't see. He couldn't move either. He felt naked, but then again, no he didn't. To tell the truth, he felt a whole different bunch of things at once—hot, cold, tired, anxious, angry, sad and happy. It was like everything about him was in flux, including his thoughts. He tried to piece his shattered mind together: he remembered a bright blue-white light. That was it. The bright light had absorbed him and that was it, and now he was here, alone, in the dark, unable to see or move. That was all he knew, all he was at the moment.

Still, he heard the bells.

All at once things started to come back together. The jingling noise grew softer, like it was echoing off something in the distance. Then it disappeared. He suddenly found that he could move, that he had something called a body, and that his body was slightly sore, but otherwise fine. The topmost part of his body (he assumed it was called a "head") was resting on something scratchy and uncomfortable. He raised it. The darkness lifted to show that he was laying spread eagled on his stomach on the floor. All around him were scattered eighteen other bodies, all of them still asleep. They had survived.

He suddenly remembered who he was. He was Mathew Buck, AKA Film Brain from Swindon, England. The people scattered around him were his co-workers from That Guy with the Glasses. They had been in space recently, fighting for the freedom of Earth and to untangle the mystery concerning their friend Spoony, and had defeated their enemy only to be sucked into the ever-growing craw of the Hole, a massive anomaly that created nothing but mistakes. And now they were here in some multi-purpose room of some sort, which was weird, but still a welcome change from the blank nothingness he'd been expecting.

"Where are we?" he asked. There came a grunt from his right in reply as The Cinema Snob regained consciousness. He tried to get up and failed, looking drunkenly around the room instead, trying to place its brick walls and shoddy carpeting in his memory. He couldn't. He had never been here before.

"What the hell?" he said. "Guys, wake up. We're still alive."

"Aw, c'mon Snob, five more minutes," Eight Bit Mickey groaned. He was in a nearby corner, face pressed up against the wall by Sage's leg. Sage himself was still snoring away.

JesuOtaku yawned, and became the first of the group to sit up."What happened?" she said. "I thought we were goners when we entered the Hole."

Tell me about it. I felt like I was being melted into taffy," Linkara added, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes.

"Intriguing," CR said, rolling over to look at his surroundings. "It looks like we managed to survive and make it to some kind of alternate, brick-based dimension from which there is no escape. I hope you guys have some good stories ready. We might be here for a long time."

"How passé," OanCitizen muttered, stretching. "A bunch of caustic dipshits who caused nothing but pain in life are sent to a single room to make each other miserable for all eternity. Way to rip off Sartre, fate."

"Eh," Sad Panda shrugged, lying flat on his back looking up at the ceiling. "You know what they say; _l'enfer, c'est les autres critiques_."

"No, this isn't hell, man," Joe replied, slowly getting up. He felt as if he'd slept for a Rip van Winkelian amount of time. "It's that room where we had the Brawl a couple years back. I guess this is where The Critic started this whole chain of messes."

"Oh yeah," Paw said, shaking his head and taking off his earphones. "That was the time you got your ass kicked by like three different people, wasn't it?"

"Sue me! I was having a bad day!"

"But why are we here now?" Marzgurl wondered, dragging a disoriented Nostalgia Chick to her feet. "How'd we even managed to get out of the Hole in the first place?"

"I dunno. I'm just glad to be alive at this point," Todd replied. He looked down at his lap. Lupa was draped over it, still asleep. "Make that really glad to be alive."

"Hey, what happened to Spoony?" JewWario asked, his eyes suddenly open.

"Spoony? Isn't he here with us?" Luke said, standing up a little too fast. He got dizzy and started to fall to the floor again. The Snob got up in time to catch him.

"No. I guess he didn't make it..." Phelous said solemnly. "Hey, how'd I get under this bench?"

Sage got up about the same time as Film Brain did. They looked at each other. So Spoony was gone, then. They'd made their trip for nothing, fought Ma-Ti for nothing, let The Critic enter the Hole for nothing. That figured. Another adventure had come to an end, but this time two friends weren't there with them. Sage lowered his head in remembrance. Film Brain did too.

And then he heard them again.

Bells.

Sleigh bells, to be precise.

Film Brain raised his head. A slow smile spread across his face, which eventually became a manic grin. "Guys!" he said. "Listen! Do you hear that?"

"Who? Some guy with a penchant for noisy balls?" The Snob replied.

"It's coming from outside!" Paw said, heading for the exit. "C'mon!" The group followed him through the double doors. The corridor beyond told them they were in a hotel. They found the elevators and, in groups of five, made their way down to the lobby. The sleigh bells grew louder as they pushed their way out of the lobby into the semi-overcast Chicago midday. It sounded like some Christmas-y onslaught was booming from every surface, the reverberating chimes bringing an overwhelming, infrasonic cheer to all who heard them.

"Where's it coming from?" Marzgurl asked.

"It sounds like… Santa?" Paw said.

"It's not Santa," Film Brain replied, still grinning. "It's something much better…"

A large, bright red sleigh pulled by eight holy saints suddenly flew overhead. The onlookers on the street gasped as it swung over the rooftops, heading toward a parking garage down the street. They sprinted down the sidewalk, past cracked benches and overturned garbage cans. Ignoring the toll booth at the entrance, they headed up the side stairwell. With each level the volume of the jingling bells swelled to an even greater pitch than before, until finally they made it to the top, bursting out of the stairwell onto the roof. There, the most wonderful and most surreal sight of their entire lives greeted them.

A joyous looking man in a red cap, snow-white beard and a Jewish tallit was seated in the red sleigh, which had landed on the roof next to a large house-like thing with strange cigar-shaped nacelles—the _Exit Strategy. _Somehow, by some miracle, it had survived the Hole. In fact, it almost looked like new. The blast marks and other damage from the battle with Terl were gone, and the siding's chrome-like sheen replenished. Above it, there floated the larger bulky shape of _Comicron-One_, also in superlative shape. The man in the tallit waved to the critics as they came closer, and stepped down from his sleigh. In one hand he carried a large white sack. This man was Santa Christ, spirit of Christmas as well as Christianity, the savior of all mankind as well as the deliverer of toys to all the good Gentile children of the world, and generally anyone else who'd been really good that year.

_"HO HO HO!"_ Santa Christ said. _"Merry today, everyone!"_

"Santa Christ!" Mickey exclaimed. The entire group broke into a sea of smiles, except for OanCitizen, who instead wondered if he'd gone insane during his time unconscious.

"What are you doing here?" Marzgurl asked.

_"Well, Marzgurl my dear, I'll be honest with you… I really have no idea!"_ Santa Christ replied._ "I was in North Jerusalem, busy making my toys and preparing the flock for the coming apocalypse, when all of a sudden I heard a knock at the door, and when I looked outside everything was fine, the city was like new, and the Dome of the Rock wasn't a giant… well, you get the picture."_ He pulled on the drawstrings of his sack of gifts and salvation. _"Now, I'm not sure where he came from, but the nametag said 'To Santa Christ, From The Nostalgia Critic'. Tell me, my friends, do you know who this is…?"_

With a wave of his holy hand, the bag transformed into a white shawl, and a person peaked out from underneath it. He had long, stringy black hair, a large nose, and an oblong face. He swept back the hood of the shawl to reveal himself. It was Spoony.

"Spoony!" Film Brain cried. He and Sage rushed forward to meet their recovered friend. Spoony calmly stepped forward to meet them. Santa Christ laughed merrily as they caught him in an embrace.

"We thought you were a goner!" Sage said. "What happened to you?"

"I am… not entirely sure," Spoony replied, strangely sedate. "Santa Christ has told me many things. He told me that you all risked your lives to come save me. But why would you do this? It is illogical."

"Simple: because the needs of the plot outweigh the needs of the logic, man," Sage replied. "Hey, I am pretty good at this!"

"Ma-Ti did a lot of stuff to you while you were out, Spoony," Film Brain said. "Are you alright? Do you remember us?"

Spoony thought for a moment. "Remember… Remember…"

He pointed a finger at Film Brain. "Clarence," he said. "Your name is Clarence."

_"Close enough! HO HO HO!"_ Santa Christ boomed. Film Brain and Sage shrugged. They could work out the mental lapses of their friend later. For now, they were just glad to have him back. They took him by the arm and led him into the group, where he was greeted with further hugs and kind words.

"I still can't believe this is happening. It all just seems too convenient," JewWario said. "How'd we get here? How'd Spoony get here, and the _Exit Strategy_? What happened to The Nostalgia Critic? Why is the Earth suddenly back to normal? Who could possibly answer all these questions in a reasonable period of time?"

"I can, you yarmulke wearing buffoon!" Dr. Insano shouted, triumphantly stepping out from behind Santa Christ's sled.

"Dr. Insano! We thought we'd never see you again!" Lupa said.

"In fact, most of us _hoped_ we'd never see you again," Sad Panda added.

"Well, you can't keep a good mad scientist down, you know!" Insano replied. "Besides, my fallout shelter was getting a little musty. But it doesn't matter anymore! The Hole's energies have been completely diluted! The Earth's back to normal! Rejoice, you weak-minded dingleshits! Your reprieve from my iron fist has been granted!"

"But how is that possible?" JesuOtaku asked. "I thought the Hole destroyed everything."

"Of course not!" Insano replied. "It merely swallowed everything whole! We're living inside it now!"

"I don't understand," CR said.

"Think about it: the plot hole originally created havoc because we used to live in a universe that had ordered rules and made sense. But now that the Hole's swallowed up every piece of matter in existence, the Hole_ is_ existence itself! Ergo, there is no conflict!"

"But that doesn't make any sense," JesuOtaku said.

"It doesn't have to! Crazy's the new normal! Isn't it great? With no rules governing logic or causality anymore, anything can happen! You could wake up one morning with a giant Otter Pop in your backyard and nothing would be able to explain how it got there! It's the biggest inconsistency of them all, and the answer's probably worth a hundred Nobel Prizes, maybe a thousand!"

"But what if those inconsistencies start to hurt us again?" CR asked.

"Not a problem," Insano dismissed, waving a hand. "The mistakes the Hole caused were only severe in the first place because they clashed so violently with the old universe's physical laws. At any rate, there seems to be something holding it all in place now—a new fundamental force, if you could call it that. Besides, there'll always be more inconsistencies, more mistakes and plot holes to find and exploit for fame and fortune. They're the drive that makes us want to learn more about how the world really works, the little surprises that make life worth living! So examine them! Learn from them! Celebrate them! Without them life would be boring as all get out! And who wants to live in a world where you can't get a giant Otter Pop in your backyard by random chance? Not me, I tell you!"

"But I don't want to live in a giant mistake," Luke complained.

"Well tough titty said the giant mutant space kitty!" Insano shot back. "Nothing's perfect, kid! But just because something can't be perfect doesn't mean it can't be really fucking fantastic! It's like I said earlier; anything that wasn't possible before is possible now! The potential is limitless! Your movie's just begun, Luke, just like all of ours! So be sure to make it a good one, mistakes and all!"

"So that's it?" Film Brain said. "You just hitched a ride here with Santa Christ to give us one final plot dump before shoving off?"

"Well there's that, and—"

Insano produced a very large multi-barreled pistol from out of nowhere and pointed it at the critics. "GIVE ME BACK MY STUFF, YOU KNUCKLE-DRAGGING SCIENCE THIEVES!" he screamed. "I'VE GOT ENOUGH CARBONIC ACID IN THIS THING TO MELT THE FACES OFF EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!"

"Santa Christ, help!" Mickey cried, hanging onto Spoony for dear life.

_"Sorry Mickey, it was part of the deal!"_ Santa Christ replied. _"I help him get his stuff back, and he stops trying to blow up the Nativity in Jerusalem each Christmas! Sometimes you've just got to take the pragmatic route in life! HO HO HO!"_

* * *

A short while later Dr. Insano had gotten his wish, rocketing off into the wild blue yonder with the newly refurbished _Exit Strategy_. Santa Christ had also left after a brief period of awkwardness, his saints puffing and groaning their way into the air. That left the critics alone on the rooftop of a parking garage in the middle of Chicago. Even though they'd just been mugged, with Spoony back it still felt like a victory, if only a pyrrhic one that had taken away their confidence and sense of security.

"Well, I guess that's… something," Luke sighed. "I never thought I'd be robbed at acid gunpoint by someone in swirly goggles and a lab coat."

"John," Spoony agreed, patting Luke on the shoulder. "Your name is John."

"Well, what do we do now?" Sad Panda wondered aloud. No one knew the answer, but the question and others like it were lingering on everyone's mind: where would they go from here? What would they do in this new world? Was everything just as they'd left it? What about SUCKA? Would they still be able to make it as internet celebrities? And the most pressing question of all, what_ had_ become of The Nostalgia Critic?

All of those questions were silenced by a single "ahem". The group turned to see a man in a purple bathrobe and red cravat standing by the stairwell. He was holding a brown pipe in one hand, and smiling like someone who had lit a house filled with nothing but sick orphans and puppies on fire on his way downtown.

"I hate to interrupt your ruminating," That Guy with the Glasses said. "But my place is only a few minutes away and well stocked with gallons of booze, food, and other assorted illicit delicacies. You know what that means don't you?"

"Big low-budget independent film coke party!" The Snob replied, giving Luke a bear hug as he did so.

"With sexy dancing!" Mickey added.

"Yes," That Guy said. The group cheered.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Acid gun aside, Insano's final speech was surprisingly stirring. Take away the crazy and you've got yourself a consummate orator on your hands.

Two more chapters to go. Everything's getting wrapped up here.

-Xoanon


	61. Part 8, Chapter 60

**Chapter 60: A Fine Night to Party On**

_Greater love has no one than this; that he lay down his life for his friends._

—John 15:13

* * *

That Guy's place was more than fully stocked. It was overflowing, and as afternoon slowly dribbled into dusk the party got underway. Soon enough, there were bowls of Chex Mix and popcorn scattered everywhere around the living room. Drinks sat in everyone's hands. The music was loud and blaring, but still damn good. Mickey was in the center of the room, de-shirted, writhing like the world's most enthusiastic male stripper to the hard, driving beat. Everyone else was clustered around him in armchairs and on couches, talking, laughing and comparing notes for future reviews. At the bar sat Todd and Lupa on their agreed upon date. They weren't really making conversation, but weren't uncomfortably silent either. It was okay.

"Nice party," Todd said, looking into his half full glass of sparkling water as if he expected to find something alcoholic in there instead.

"Yeah," Lupa replied, looking elsewhere. "It is."

"Y'know, I never really said thank you for freeing me from Mechakara. So… thanks."

"No big deal. You're welcome."

"You know something?" Todd began, finally working up the courage to speak more than one sentence. "I'm glad I finally got the courage to ask you out, Lupa. I'm glad I finally decided to put my heart on the line for once. I mean, this might not work out the way I want it to, or it might end in heartbreak, but that's not for me to decide. I'll play the hand I'm dealt. Who knows what'll happen? This might be the beginning of something beautiful…"

"Sure," Lupa replied, "something beautiful." She was looking over at Phelous, who was sitting on the couch, still in The Critic's Dredd uniform. She waved briefly at him. He winked back. She laughed. Todd laughed too, even though he had no idea why he was doing it.

On the other side of the room, JesuOtaku excused herself from a conversation with Spoony (who was still calling her "Carol") to make a phone call. Nash was probably worried sick about her. It had been about two weeks since she'd told him she was heading to The Critic's place to pick up her new sports car. She'd probably have to head back tonight. Nash got nightmares when she was away for too long. She brought her phone out and put it to her ear.

"Nash?" she said. "Hey, hon, it's me… Yeah, I know. A lot of weird things have been happening lately… I don't know… I… I'll be home very soon. I promise… Well you know what? When I get back, we'll settle in and watch some _Cowboy Bebop_ together, 'kay? How's that sound? I know… I know you don't like the Edward episodes… That's okay. We can skip 'em 'c_uz Edward doesn't need to watch Edward on TV, silly! Hahahahahahaha!" _

No one in the room noticed JO's hair briefly turn bright red.

"So yeah, I'll be home by like one in the… What? What'd I say? I didn't say anything like that… Maybe we've got a bad connection or something, I dunno. So I'll see you later, babe. Buh-bye."

"…And that's how he managed to get the Chinese finger trap on me." Back against the wall, The Nostalgia Chick was getting the lowdown on the Mechakara incident from Linkara, who still hadn't realized that The Chick was about to start banging her head against the wall to relieve the boredom. "By then, half the kitchen was already destroyed, and he'd melted my phaser into a blob of composite plastic, so I was already on the ropes. That's when I got out the big guns—"

"Hey, Linkara?" The Chick interrupted. "Not that your story isn't riveting, but I was wondering if you knew anything about the stuff he put in my head." She blinked rapidly, her eyeballs turning translucent and briefly exposing the computer circuitry jammed into the space behind them.

"Oh, that stuff?" Linkara shrugged. "Nanites, probably. I'd reckon the circuitry any android would use for duplication of organic beings into cyborgs is way too complex for solid body electronics. I can give you a little antidote Pollo whipped up for it if you want."

"Sign me up. Having alien soap operas playing continuously in my brain are getting a bit tiring," The Chick said. "How long will it take to fix it?"

"It should get them out of your system in a few months," Linkara replied.

"Better than I expected," The Chick said. "It's not a suppository, is it?"

"More of a topical ointment that's kind of like sunscreen. It actually works by a really interesting process. You see, first it starts by disabling the equipment's radio transmitters—"

"Fascinating," The Chick interrupted again.

"Okay… well," Linkara continued, "considering Mechakara's remains are probably going to be floating around deep space until the end of time, I suppose I can consider him the first villain of mine that's actually going to stay down for once. I'd call that a victory for humanity, and us."

"Yeah," The Chick sighed. She was looking at Todd celebrating it up with his redheaded bimbo over at the bar. "Some victory."

"You think you'll ever be able to find true love again?" Linkara asked. Sad Panda had filled him in on the love triangle stuff earlier, and he could tell she was still just a little broken up over losing Todd to Lupa.

"I don't see that happening at the moment," The Chick replied, stirring her drink comprised of several different hard liquors with a spoon. "I guess I've really got to stop chasing these jerks that reject me and start focusing on nice guys instead. Any recommendations?"

"Look behind you, _mamacita_."

The Chick turned away from Linkara's almost spoken statement to see Angry Joe, red-S emblazoned chest puffed out, arms akimbo, and mustachioed face smiling a letch's smile at her.

"Oh for the love of…" The Chick grumbled, pushing Joe away.

"Bitch," Joe said, stomping off. Enticed, The Chick began to follow him. Linkara was disappointed. He'd actually been hoping to get in on the ground floor with her this time. Oh well. He'd ask her out after the eventual breakup. In the meantime, maybe NIMUE could give him some pointers, though he'd have to be careful. If Pollo ever caught wind of him taking advice on romance from an AI construct, then he'd never hear the end of the jokes about "digital love" or something even more tasteless. He took a sip of his Aruba Surprise (bourbon and Hawaiian Punch) and sighed, wondering about his own future...

The Cinema Snob did a line off the coffee table. Luke was on his left, a mountain of pure, fresh-cut Colombian marching powder on his right. That Guy hadn't been blowing smoke when he'd mentioned "illicit delicacies", and when prompted he'd directed The Snob right to his own personal stash. Talk about a gracious host. He leaned back on the couch and snorted, sending a small white cloud drifting out of his left nostril. Luke was too polite to tell him that his face was also streaked with the stuff, and that he generally looked like he'd just ran a 10k marathon in less than five minutes. The Snob called Mickey over for a private dancing session and leaned toward his reinstated protégé. They'd been discussing the forthcoming production of their new picture in between bouts of drug fueled inspiration.

"Alright," The Snob sniffed, scratching his arm and blinking way too rapidly. "Now, we've already got the financial backing we need from the website, but we're gonna need a little more som'thin-some'thin if we want to break out of the domestic market and go international. Any thoughts?"

"We could try getting a distribution deal with… Chinese pirates?" Luke suggested. The Snob was probably open to anything at this point. He'd already agreed to make Luke co-producer, even though Luke had had no real input on anything in the movie yet.

"Yeah… yeah that's brilliant, fucking brilliant!" The Snob said. "We strike a bargain with the people who'll eventually pirate the movie so they don't pirate it in the first place, give 'em two percent of the gross so they'll play nice and protect our stakes in the Far East! Goddamn bulletproof! This is why you're co-director, kid!"

"Co-producer."

"Whatever." The Snob sniffed, watching as Mickey gyrated hypnotically on top of the coffee table. "Okay, onto casting: we're gonna need twenty guys dressed in Confederate uniforms to play the zombie soldiers, two guys to play Robert E. Lee and General Grant, one guy for Mercenary Robot Lincoln, and fifty women wearing nothing at all. Do you think we can swing it?"

"Absolutely, sir." Luke happily wrote down the requirements on his notepad. He didn't care that The Snob was higher than a kite. He was happy enough to be back where he belonged.

Film Brain was sitting in the corner, swirling his cup of water around. He was still thinking about The Critic's departure, about all the ways he could've possibly convinced The Critic to stay, and about how, despite his and Sage's epic battle with Ma-Ti in Spoony's mind, he'd failed. The Critic was gone forever. He had no idea how everyone else could celebrate with that fact hanging overhead like a storm cloud. Weren't they sad at all? Didn't they wonder what had happened to him? Didn't they miss him?

"Hey."

Film Brain looked up to see Sage walking over to him holding a plate of nachos. "You okay, buddy?" he said.

"I guess," Film Brain replied. "I don't really know. I'm still thinking about how The Critic left us. What if he's trapped in the Hole? What if he thinks we betrayed him by leaving him in space like Ma-Ti? And if he ever comes back won't he be really mad? Won't he try to destroy us like Ma-Ti did? What if he boils our—?"

"Film Brain," Sage sighed. "One predicament at a time, dude."

"Oh. Sorry," Film Brain said. "But what if he's really in trouble?"

"CR installed a distress beacon in the lifeboat. He's still got the transmitter, and Insano's got the _Exit Strategy_. He'll probably go out there with us to rescue The Critic if we force him to," Sage replied. "Besides, Spoony's back to normal. Does that count for anything?"

"Of course it does. It's just…" Film Brain swirled his drink around a little more. "I feel like we're never going to see The Critic again. I mean, back on the ship, he just walked out the door… well kind of. He walked out the airlock and almost decompressed the whole ship. But it was kind of like that, y'know? It was something final. And now we're all going to have to get used to life without him. Can you imagine what that'll be like? Not having to deal with him and his crazy schemes, his mood swings, and no more crossover reviews? I don't really think it'll be totally different, but—"

"Film Brain?"

"What?"

"Behind you."

Film Brain turned around. Behind him and Sage were three bluish glowing men that looked very familiar. One of them was dressed in a black suit jacket and cap, and a red tie. The other was dressed in a brown cloak and festive Hawaiian shirt. The third man had a similar brown cloak, but instead of party apparel he had on a stark white tunic. A grey cylinder was clipped to his belt. The first two men were youthful, but the third man was older, wiser, and whiter haired. All three of them were smiling. Film Brain and Sage were in awe. It wasn't every evening in mid-spring that one got to see the Plot-ghosts of The Nostalgia Critic, Last Angry Geek, and renowned Shakespearean actor Sebastian Shaw all at once.

"So… you're not mad at us for leaving you out in space, are you?" Sage asked.

The Critic nodded no.

"Oh. Okay, great!" Sage clasped Film Brain on the shoulder. "Problem solved, buddy. C'mon. There's a 'we're really glad to be alive' party going on, and you're invited."

"Glad I am," Film Brain replied. He turned to follow Sage toward the impromptu snack bar on the other side of the room, pausing only to say one last thing to The Critic:

"Was it worth it?"

**_Absolutely, _**The Critic replied. **_Now go enjoy yourself, ya little Pop Tart. _**

Film Brain smiled, and turned away. The apparitions of the Plot disappeared, leaving nothing in the room beside eighteen very happy people who, considering everything they'd been through, certainly were glad to be alive. The celebration lasted all night long. There were drinks, sexy dancing, cocaine-fueled Twister sessions, pointless discussions and movie trivia sharing—everything there had been before the Hole and more. It was a celebration in full defiance against the uncertain times in which they lived, the real and sometimes sad knowledge that they would always have uncertainties, troubles and persecutors, and that things in life wouldn't always be rosy, especially for people like them.

But even so, no matter what happened—even if the site or the entire internet itself went bust and they all had to go their separate ways—they would always still be friends. And no matter what laws were passed, no matter how many aliens or plot hole attacks swooped down from the stars, no matter how many small-minded or corrupt people stood in their way time and again, they would always make it through. They would always be critics, and the world always needed critics, no matter how crazy or random it was.

* * *

**Author's** **Notes: **It was nice getting a little snapshot of the crew at the end of the movie. Really underscored the finality of the whole thing. I tried to capture that as best I could here, and put in some shout outs to future events (just _a_ shout out, actually.)

We're almost done...

-Xoanon


	62. Epilogue

**Epilogue: He Remembers**

_I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be._

—Douglas Adams

* * *

Kevin Baugh, leader for life and supreme President of the Republic of Molossia, walked out onto the front porch of Government House. It was a glorious morning, the sun rising steadily over the desert hills. He took a deep breath. The air was clean—oxygenated, unlike the helium it had been for the past few days. With all the strange things that had happened lately, to have everything suddenly go back to normal just like that was a feat he simply couldn't explain. The world was whole again, and aside from the giant Otter Pop that had somehow appeared in the scrubland just over the border, everything was as it should be. That meant it was time to get back into routine, which meant getting the morning paper.

He strolled off the porch, down the concrete (_not _marzipan) walkway toward the street. The mailbox was right where it always was, on top of its pole, not sentient. The paper inside wasn't printed on cardstock, or rice paper, but rather good old newsprint. The President chuckled to himself as he shut the flap and began his walk back to the House, thinking it ironic that, out of all the strange things that had happened recently, the strangest thing he'd ever owned was still out of commission. The rocket chair, broken for about a year now, was still sitting in the government storage shed, a shame considering how useful the damned thing had been. He had no idea how to fix it, and neither did the several mechanics he'd taken it to. He supposed it would continue to gather dust until—

President Baugh stopped. He'd looked up to see the rocket chair sitting on his front porch. That was odd. Perhaps his mind was still playing tricks on him? According to the First Lady, he _had_ become a talking carrot at some point in the past few days. He approached the chair, stepping up to it lightly. On the armrest was a small note card, tastefully decorated in gold leaf. He took it and opened it up. Inside, it simply read:

_ Sorry. _

Baugh looked down at the chair's control panel. The burnt out control mechanism that had originally put it out of action had been replaced. He pressed the power button. A low hum began to sound from the superconducting electromagnetic generator under the seat. The entire apparatus lifted into the air and hovered about a foot off the ground. It was working again. By some weird miracle, the chair had been repaired.

Baugh smiled. Whoever had done it had also done his bunions a huge favor.

* * *

Dr. Tease strummed her guitar, and as she stared longingly out the barred window of her prison cell at the city of Tijuana she began to sing: _Las salchichas son muy graciosa en la primavera/¿Ay, cómo puedo vivir sin tus pantalones que son rojo e muy guapo muy guapo muy guapo? _

"You have absolutely no idea what you're singing, do you?" Dr. Block said, trying to take a _siesta _on the seat in the adjacent cell. She adjusted her wimple to block the sunlight streaming in from her own window, which unfortunately was also barred.

"It sounds pretty. That's all that counts," Dr. Tease replied. "You're just jealous that they let me keep my guitar and took your Geiger counter away." She strummed another chord and continued her song: _Y tengo quince gatos en mi coche por un razón/Para venderlos a los niños en las ciudades para dinero de drogas y cómo es y cómo es y cómo es—_

Suddenly, there was a loud explosion, the smell of toothpaste and bleach, and just like that both Dr. Block and Dr. Tease were suddenly outside their respective jail cells in the plaza overlooking Tijuana Beach. In fact, there was no jail to speak of anymore. It was now a giant green Jell-O shot jiggling in the Mexican sun, its emerald brilliance reflecting off the surrounding buildings for a good few blocks. Dr. Block and Tease, habits discarded, were now dressed once again in their old lab coats and, unusually, fruit hats. They stood there for a moment, disbelieving of their good luck.

"Well, that was… different," Dr. Block said finally.

"I suppose it was," Dr. Tease concurred, plucking a grape from her hat. "Well, we're free now. Should we head for the border or stay and pick up some cheap, illicitly donated organs while we're here?"

Dr. Block shrugged. "We're in Tijuana. Might as well live a little." She gestured to the Jell-O shot. "If nothing else, we should probably get out of here before all the tourists show up to ingest that thing."

"I like the way you think," Dr. Tease said. The two turned around and ran for the crowds on the beach as fast as they could.

* * *

_ "I hate this new universe!"_ Douchey McNitpick complained, wailing his way down Montyville's main street. Everyone on the sidewalk was giving him a wide berth, as usual. He hated everything so much he didn't really care. _"It's too random! The plot hole made everything too confusing! This is pointless! Everything was so much better in the old universe, even though the old universe sucked too! What's up with this sidewalk? It's too grey! Way too fucking grey! Why can't anybody make a universe that _I_ like for once? Is that too much to ask? How about one where I don't get an atomic wedgie every time I—" _

Douchy McNitpick exploded in a shower of blood and gristle and meat chunks. Everyone carried on regardless.

* * *

Just beyond the remains of a large crater in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable residential neighborhood, That Sci-Fi Guy appeared. He was still screaming and covering his head in terror, but otherwise fine. After a few moments, he noticed that he wasn't about to be immolated by a death laser of immense destructive power, and that he was totally unscathed. He lowered his hands, and slowly turned to look behind him. He was alive, but his house was still ruined. Whatever force that had pulled him from the brink of oblivion had failed to take it along for the ride as well.

"Aw man!" he groaned. "The landlord's gonna be pissed!"

* * *

_…So that's the story. I hope you're willing to let me go easily, and that you're not too upset about your little brother being trapped in some gigantic swirling space anus for the rest of eternity, or about not getting a proper goodbye either. I'll still be able to see you and Mom from time to time, but we'll have to coordinate our visits. This new job of mine's not something I can just step away from for very long. Other than that, things are kind of looking up. I guess you can say I've finally found a place where I can be useful, and dare I say it, maybe even happy. I don't have the show to do anymore either. That's kind of a plus, right? Anyway, I wrote this because I wanted to tell you thanks for everything, bro, especially that time you helped me hide Dr. Bitch Spasms' body in the woods. You always were the best thing I had in my crummy old life. Keep a seat open at poker night for me, even though I can't play for shit. _

_ Love, your brother, _

_ Doug _

Rob Walker put down the note he'd found on his kitchen table. He'd assumed something big had gone down; the phone call had told him enough. But this time his little brother had gotten himself into something so big that even he couldn't undo it. For once in his adult life, he had no idea how to react. Crying seemed like a good option, but for some reason he didn't feel very sad. He felt… relieved. That wasn't a very good description, but it was the closest approximation he could make. He was relieved that his little brother sounded genuinely happy where he was, that he found a place he truly belonged. And if he was okay with it, who could judge otherwise?

Still, he thought, things wouldn't be the same without Doug. Although a lesser man would've thrown up his hands, changed his last name and moved three states away to escape the black hole of craziness that was The Nostalgia Critic's life, Rob had actually grown fond of those deranged antics he shared every week. He knew, even though its absence from his life would clear up his schedule entirely, that he would miss helping write the show, their battles with bad movies, and being there to clean up the mess every time Doug waded in a little too far. When they'd started their little escapade all those years ago, somehow he'd known that it would end. But he'd never dreamed it would end like this.

He got up, carefully folding the note and placing it back into its little envelope, and walked into the other room to get his cell phone. He had some calls to make to the nursing home. Mom wouldn't understand at first, given her condition, but she would come around eventually. Maybe then she'd realize just how "needy" her son really was.

* * *

The Angry Video Game Nerd opened his front door after hearing a knock. No one was there. He looked down. There was a case of Rolling Rock on the front step. He smiled. Somehow he knew it was a parting gift from an old friendly enemy, and not a prank from the Henderson kids down the block like last time. He bent down to grasp its handle. It felt like it'd been refrigerated for at least a month; exactly the way a case of quality beer should. He stood and looked up into the grey Philadelphia sky.

"Thanks, man," he said. The only reply was a brief gust of wind. He went back inside and slowly shut the door behind him.

* * *

Jupiter-space was still littered with the corpses of the fallen, among several thousand other bits of rubble from a fleet destroyed starships and the Death Bomb. Even though the gradual decay of their orbital paths would eventually lead the debris to their doom in the bowels of the orange giant or the depths of space, it would take a long time before the skies above Europa were completely cleared. By then, the ailing moon would be completely frozen again, all life on its surface erased thanks to the removal of the bizarre yet wonderful wellspring that had brought it into existence to begin with. It had disappeared from Europa entirely, taking with it all the prospects that it had once been possible in its wake.

Yet all was not lost. For in the depths of space, far beyond the reach of any radio telescope or spaceship, at the very edge of existence itself, in the afterglow of the biggest bang of them all, there sat a great wall of bluish-white reaching for endless distances in every direction. The Hole had survived. It was just much bigger now.

So, nestled within the walls of that gigantic whirlpool of wonders, the entirety of creation lived. Instead of a mindless destroyer, it was now the protector of these myriads of worlds, its caretaker, one that would keep things in line and prevent things from getting too hairy for the zillions of denizens within its vortex. Such ultimate power was not meant to be taken lightly, and the being which had stepped up to become the new consciousness of the Hole was surely up to the monumental task. He was feisty, determined, somewhat intelligent, and no matter how high the stakes ran, no matter how bad things looked, no matter what insurmountable obstacles he had to face, he never, ever gave up.

And he had a name.

**_I am The Nostalgia Critic…_**

* * *

The Writer looked over his work. The plot hole had resolved itself. It was now a part of the site's continuity, and a damn good catch-all for any future mistakes made. More importantly, the story was finally finished. It wasn't perfect by any means—he still had a few kinks to work out here and there—but it was still very good, and it had the best resolution his greatest character could have ever hoped for. He smiled. That was what he'd been writing for all along, and he was sure it would be a wonderful little tale its audience would remember and cherish in their memories for a long time to come.

With thin fingers, he leaned over the keyboard one more time and typed out the last words of the story, the only thing that still needed to be said:

**The End**

* * *

_Dedicated to the Memory and Accomplishments of Roger Joseph Ebert_

_American Film Critic, Screenwriter, Journalist, and Winner of the 1975 Pulitzer Prize for Criticism_

_June 18, 1942—April 4, 2013_

* * *

**Author's Notes: ** And so it goes.

To everyone who gave a review, I give copious thanks: pokeloon15, Billy Arratoon, nunouno1, iHeart2896, Jokerman, Dark Archer, Gijinka Renamon, Gone Rampant, Bluebell-Rah, ddigimon, B.m Jr-Twilight Sage, Pulsor93, Chibininjah, Dubtalia, MegFallow, Doctor fan, ryu238, and Raxius (apologies if I missed anybody). Seeing people enjoying the stories was the reason I kept writing them, and I hope this last outing was a good place for me to stop and let other busy little hands take over.

I'm not sure how the story goes after this. I'm not The Author; that's Doug. But even with The Nostalgia Critic back and him at the helm writing a new story every week the possibilities are limitless. It can all end here if you want, with The Critic as master of the universe, or pick back up when he comes out of The Hole with the new series. Maybe it goes somewhere else entirely. Honestly, there's no one writing the character but you, and when you're doing it right whichever path you choose to believe can be your story, and your story can be great. It's just like the man said: The Plot is what you make of it. Simple as that.

So write your own story, make it a good one, and I'll see you next time.

-Xoanon


End file.
